


Volition

by CarlyWrites



Series: Natasha and Wanda [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Canon Compliant, Car Accidents, Car Chases, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint and Laura Barton's Family, Domestic Avengers, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Natasha Romanov, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Laura Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Marvel Universe, Minor canon divergence, Missions Gone Wrong, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov centric, Natasha Romanov-centric, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV First Person, POV Natasha Romanov, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Canon, Prequel, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Laura Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Red Room (Marvel), Rescue Missions, Series, Social Anxiety, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Strike Team Delta, Super Soldier Serum, The Avengers (2012) Compliant, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 43
Words: 123,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarlyWrites/pseuds/CarlyWrites
Summary: Before Natasha became and Avenger, before she saved the world, before she became Wanda's mom, she was the Black Widow. Then Clint gave her a choice.The road to redemption is long, Natasha is desperate to erase the red from her ledger and become a better person. Over the course of six years, she faces numerous enemies and trials that prove herself worth of the title "Avenger".This story is a prequel to the Natasha and Wanda series, starting in 2006 with Natasha's rescue, to days before the start of Avengers.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Maria Stark, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Nick Fury, Clint Barton & Phil Coulson, Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Cooper Barton & Lila Barton & Natasha Romanov, Cooper Barton & Natasha Romanov, Laura Barton & Natasha Romanov, Lila Barton & Natasha Romanov, Maria Hill & Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Nick Fury & Natasha Romanov, Pepper Potts & Natasha Romanov, Phil Coulson & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov
Series: Natasha and Wanda [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615924
Comments: 519
Kudos: 213





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 of the prequel!! Hope you enjoy! If you haven't read the other parts of the series, I definitely recommend you do so as it adds a lot more meaning to the chapters, but this isn't required for the story to make sense! Any comments and feedback are appreciated!

I look around the hotel bar. It is not very often that I get to come to the United States, it is a long trip and much easier to travel through Europe undetected. I had landed in Miami two nights ago, alone; a privilege no others in the program can tout. I order a club soda with lime and wait for my targets to come down to the bar as they have for the past two evenings. Like clockwork, they do. People are so predictable.  
“Boys, it is good to see you again,” I smile at them, raising my glass.  
“Lucy, good to see you. How is the merger going?” one of them leans against the counter, ordering a beer. The others order their respective drinks.  
“You know how these things are, just people droning on to hear themselves talk, to sound important,” I roll my eyes and laugh. I had introduced myself when I first arrived. Lucy Thompson from Los Angeles. Here for a company merger with a tech firm based in Florida. They say they are here for a pharmaceutical conference. It is actually a funny cover. I might have to tell them that before I kill them. They are picking up one of the largest shipments of cocaine to ever come into the United States and crossed the Russian mob to work with the cartels in Mexico. So, in a sense, yes, it is a pharmaceutical conference. “But you would think, as we do all this important work for our companies, they would at least put us in a nicer hotel,”  
“This is one of the nicest hotels in Miami,” one of them scoffs, “We own it,” Five of the guys look over at the one leaning on the counter. He is going to ruin everything. Why would a drug company own a hotel?  
“Are pharmaceutical company investing in hospitality? Clever! Med retreats are all the rage out on the West Coast,” I save the mission quickly from this idiot’s blunder. The others relax. “You must be staying in the presidential suite if your company owns the building,”  
“We are in the penthouse,” another boasts.  
“Oh, I bet you have the most amazing view of the ocean,” I sigh dreamily.  
“We can show you,”  
“I would hate to impose,”  
“No, please. We insist,” I smile demurely, and we leave the bar with our drinks. I pretend to stumble slightly as I get off my stool and grab onto one of them for support. I give his muscles an appreciative squeeze and raise my eyebrows. His chest puffs out.  
“I may have relaxed a little too much after this day from hell,” I giggle. In the elevator, I ask them about the conference, using vague enough questions that it won’t seem like I am prying. I can feel the weight of my gun in my Birkin, knives are strapped to my thighs under the pencil skirt. This would all be so much easier if I could wear actual combat gear and not have to hide my weapons like some housewife.  
Finally, the elevator reaches the top floor. Surprisingly, it does not open to the suite like the plans indicated, but to a hallway. It is fine, this is an easy adjustment. The keycard swipes and we step into the room. I pretend to be awestruck by the room while really, I am looking for cameras. There are none. I am good to go.  
“Oh my God, I have to get a picture of this view,” I reach into my purse and pull out the gun. I quickly kill three of them with shots straight to the forehead. The other three have time to react and pull out their guns. There is a spray of bullets, but I dodge them, ducking down and killing each in the same fashion. They are dead. I look down at my leg and frown. I have been hit, extremely inconvenient, and am losing a lot of blood. The door to the bathroom opens. There is a maid. Shit. I forgot to check the bathroom. I can imagine the lashing I would get if Ivan were here, what I will get when I tell him. This is an unexpected variable. Variables have to be eliminated. I hold up my gun and shoot. The blood loss makes me sloppy and I hit her throat. Her scream is gargled as she collapses to the floor. I walk forward and fire another into her skull. Mercy, a weakness they have not been able to beat out of me, no matter how hard I want it to go away.  
“Black Widow, you’re a hard woman to find,” I forgot to watch the door. Stupid, Natalia. I turn to face him, ready to accept my fate. My gun is out of bullets. My act of kindness will be the death of me. Had I let the maid suffer, I would already be gone. The archer dead. However, he lowers his bow slightly, no longer a kill shot.  
“Aren’t you going to kill me?” I ask.  
“You’re a kid,” he states.  
“I’ve never been a child, and I am definitely not one now,” I reply, “Do what you came to do,” I am getting dizzy, but I will not show weakness as I stare down death.  
“You aren’t going to fight back?” I hesitate. I should, I probably could, still take him down, but no.  
“I don’t think so,” I look down at the maid, I took another innocent life, “They said to kill whoever got in the way. I did.” I tear my gaze away from the woman, “I am your mission. Are you going to kill me?” I realize, with a hint if disgust, that I want this. I am weak. I am not deserving of the title of Black Widow. He lowers the weapon completely.  
“No. I am choosing not to kill you.”  
“You are going against your mission,” I try to comprehend this. “They will kill you for it. I am not worth that,” I am not worth this man’s life. He does not even know me.  
“They won’t kill me for disobeying orders,” he inspects me carefully, “Come with me.”  
“I cannot. It is not part of my mission.” I cannot disobey orders. I need to perform first aid on my leg and fly back to Russia.  
“Come with me, fight the good fight, do good,” I stare at him, “’Pick to come with me,”  
“Pick?”  
“You choose,”  
“I do not have a choice. My orders are to go back to Russia.” I feel myself swaying. “If you are not going to kill me, I have to kill you. You are an unwanted variable, SHIELD Agent,” I spy the small patch on his bulletproof vest. I stagger over to one of the men and pick up his gun. The tremor in my hands is so bad I cannot get a grip. I stumble and lose my balance, landing on the man. My face presses against his wound, hot blood covering my cheeks. I take a deep breath and pull myself off the ground. The archer is watching me with fascination, like how someone observes an animal in the wild.  
“You don’t look like someone who enjoys their job,”  
“Why would it matter if I like my job? It is what I was made to do,”  
“I think you mean born,”  
“No. I don’t.” I tear the t-shirt of one of the men and tie it around my leg.  
“Come with me,”  
“They will find me and kill me.”  
“They will eventually kill you anyways,” he points out. I try not to get angry at his logic. Anger is hard to control. “And you haven’t stopped looking over at the maid since we started talking. You didn’t want to kill her, and you showed her mercy with a second shot. You are not the monster the world makes you out to be.” A small smile makes its way to my lips. For the first time in my life, someone sees my weakness as a strength. “You won’t be a prisoner, I promise.” He offers me his hand. I don’t take it. Instead, I bend down and pick my heels up off the ground. I can at least try to maintain my dignity.  
“Where are we heading?”  
We end up across the street at a small bar on the beach. The agent leads me through the back and into the kitchen. A small blonde man in a suit is speaking quietly on a cell phone.  
“Coulson, I got her.” The man turns around and pales.  
“Barton, she’s alive.”  
“I never said she was dead.” He tilts his head, accompanied by a lopsided grin.  
“I think I need to sit down,” I murmur, the blood loss getting to me. The tile floor is cool against my legs.  
“She is the most dangerous assassin in the world and you just invited her to a bar? Clint, when Fury said take her out, this is not what he meant.”  
“Come on Coulson, look at her. She told me she doesn’t want to be an assassin. I think we should give her a chance. Take her back to HQ. She wants to fight the good fight.”  
“Is this true?” I nod my head.  
“If it means I never have to kill another innocent person, I’ll do anything.” Way to lay it all out there, Natalia. But it isn’t a lie. Getting away from the Red Room, from Madame B and Ivan. My thoughts drift briefly to Yelena. She’ll be fine. She is almost as good as me, I made sure of it.  
“You did the same for me,” the agent, who I now know is Clint Barton, adds. What does that mean? I look between the two of them. I wish they would just make a decision already.  
“Fine, let’s get going. And keep pressure on that wound.” Coulson sighs. I look down and see the blood has already soaked through the t-shirt. I use the handle of the fridge behind me to pull myself up. “Fury is going to have my head for this.”  
We take a car to a nearby landing strip where there is a small jet waiting. The bleeding has begun to slow, and I am feeling more coherent. The gravity of my actions have hit me. I am betraying my country, treason. What if this was an elaborate test? I have definitely failed. This would mean more injections. I can feel my skin burning with the thought of them. Agent Barton is holding the door open, offering me his assistance once again. I climb out of the car, my heart racing, and go up the steps to the jet. The inside is modern and cramped. I think of my first class plane ticket from Moscow, sitting in the purse on my arm.  
“We need to take your weapons,” Coulson states, holding out his hand. I hand him my gun, and then reach up my skirt, pullout out the knives. Agent Barton seems impressed that I was carrying them. I then remove the pins from my hair, knowing he will be expecting them. The red curls fall loosely down my back. Then I hand him my stilettos.  
“Do you want the underwire in my bra?” I killed someone two weeks ago with it. It works well in a pinch. Agent Barton chokes back a laugh.  
“Um, no, this should be good. Thank you.” Coulson heads up to the cock pit. I hear the door lock behind him.  
“So, what is your name?”  
“Black Widow,”  
“Yeah, and I’m Hawkeye.” He jokes, “No, your real name.”  
“Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”  
“Well, it’s nice to meet you Nat.” I warm slightly at the nickname, perhaps this isn’t a trap. It could be real. No more missing chunks of time. No more torture. No harming children or innocents. I could really be free. “Welcome to SHIELD.”  


* * *

I am disappointed to be locked in a cell upon my arrival, though I can’t say I am surprised. Agent Clint Barton, as he introduced himself, did not have the foresight of alerting his superiors that he was bringing me back with him. They cuffed me, and I allowed them that false sense of security as they treated my gunshot wound. After the doctors leave, the handcuffs automatically unlock.  
The cell is uninteresting. There is a metal shelf that constitutes as a bed. It is a glass box in a basement. If I had been blindfolded when I was brought in, I’d have thought it to be a warehouse. Another mistake on Agent Barton’s part. Not blindfolding me was a mistake. You should never let your prisoners see where you are taking them unless you don’t intend for them to leave. Perhaps that is his plan: show me off to his superiors. He managed to capture the Black Widow alive, entangling her in a web of hope. But I could be wrong. It could be true, his offer of redemption. Hope. Another weakness, one that I thought for sure was gone. I close my eyes and rest my head on the wall of the cell. There is no point in wondering when someone will come, when my fate will be revealed. I gave myself up to the enemy with little thought of the consequences. But I will never have to go back. I hear the doors to the expansive room in which my cell sits, open.  
“Agent Barton, you cannot bring home a KGB assassin like she is a lost puppy!” A man shouts. I open my eyes with mild interest. They get closer and I see he is wearing an eyepatch.  
“She is only a kid; did you look at her?”  
“She is also one of the most wanted criminals in the world.”  
“It isn’t her fault,” he argues, “Do you blame the gun or the person using it?” I am surprised to feel a pang of hurt at being compared to a weapon. It is what I am. But it feels different when Agent Barton says it. For some reason, I thought he viewed me differently.  
“How about both, Barton?” the man’s voice brings me out of my thoughts.  
“She asked me to kill her, sir. I couldn’t. I am sure she can be a valuable asset to SHIELD,”  
“You have been here for two years, Agent. That’s not very long.”  
“Considering the mortality rate of this job, I think that is a very long time.”  
“She is your responsibility.”  
“I can handle it.”  
“Really? Because it seems even the KGB couldn’t handle her,” the man storms out of the room. Agent Barton walks over and unlocks the door to my cell. He holds it open and looks at me expectantly.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Letting you out, I got the okay.” He smiles.  
“Your boss did not sound okay with this,” I look over to the slammed double doors that the man disappeared through.  
“I didn’t lose my job and you’re not dead. With Fury, that means he’s okay with it.” Fury, he must be in charge. He has a temper but is willing to bend the rules. I stand up from the cot, testing my leg. I am fine. “What do you normally do between missions?” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.  
“Train,”  
“What about when you aren’t training?” he asks, “For free time?”  
“Leisure activities?” I clarify, stepping cautiously out of the cell, still not convinced this isn’t some sort of trap. “I have been given identities that have hobbies, but personally I have never had one.” My latest persona, Lucy, enjoyed tennis.  
“You have never done anything for fun in your entire life?” He looks exasperated.  
“No. It is a waste of time,” I cross my arms but feel nervous. I don’t want to upset him, “Are you my new handler?”  
“What? No,” he laughs, “We’re going to be partners,”  
“Partners?” I balk, “I work alone,”  
“Okay, Batman,” he shoves me, and I tense, ready for a fight. However, he is smiling at me. This is a show of companionship. I shove back. “Let’s grab something to eat,” I follow him down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Thank you all for the lovely feedback on the first chapter, it was so appreciated! This chapter came out pretty sad, just like the tone, I didn't mean for it to- I promise this isn't how the whole fic will be! Please enjoy!

We go up a set of stairs and enter the ground floor. Sunlight streams in and showcases just how destroyed my outfit really is.  
“We should get you some fresh clothes,” He looks down at my blood drenched suit. “I have some spare sweatpants and stuff in the locker room, is that okay?” I don’t know what he wants me to say to that. Like I would really rather stay in this itchy torn clothing.  
“Whatever you think is appropriate.” He looks like he is about to argue with me, and I don’t know why. But he doesn’t, and I follow him to the locker room. The tile floor is cold against my bare feet. He puts the sweats on a bench, and I begin to strip down.  
“Jesus, Natalia!”  
“What?” I look down at myself. There is nothing out of the ordinary. The black lace lingerie is still intact.  
“Next time just give me a little warning so I can turn around.” He groans, doing just that. I have upset him twice in the past five minutes. I put on the clothes quickly.  
“I’m sorry, Agent Barton.”  
“It’s fine, really.” He seems embarrassed. I am isolating my only ally. “Let’s head to the cafeteria, get something to eat. Sound like a plan?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. I drop my ruined clothes in the trash and follow him. The cafeteria is full of agents. I feel myself relax. I can blend into a crowd. I can be invisible. He leads me over to a counter of premade sandwiches.  
“What do you want to eat?” I look and see he has grabbed a turkey club and a cup of coffee. I do the same.  
“Do you have to choose every meal?” I ask curiously.  
“Yes,” he looks at me funny as we take a seat at an empty table.  
‘Doesn’t that become tedious? Trying to calculate nutritional value? Couldn’t your time be spent on other things?” He frowns and I have said something wrong again. It is much easier to be given a persona, to be told to be someone. I take a sip of my coffee to hide my nerves. I don’t know who I am. Finding out is becoming messy. Messy gets you killed. Agent Barton takes a bite of his sandwich.  
“How is your leg?”  
“Fine. I am sorry for making such a big deal about it,” I answer quickly. He chokes on his sandwich.  
“You were bleeding out.”  
“It will be healed in a day or two. My reaction was unnecessary.”   
“What do you mean?” he leans forward, forgetting about his lunch.  
“I was being overdramatic.”  
“No, before that.” He is getting frustrated again.  
“I will be healed in a day or two?”  
“Yes,”  
“Gunshot wounds take on average seventy-two hours to heal.” I take a bite of my sandwich for the first time. It is not very good. He is look at me like I have three heads. “Agent Barton?”  
“I think we need to meet with Fury.”  
“I’m sorry if I have upset you.” I try to think of what it could be that prompted this reaction. This little field trip will undoubtedly be cut short and I will be back down in the cell sooner than I expected.  
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he assures me, but it does nothing to calm my nerves. Not that he can see that anything is bothering me. I have been careful to keep my face neutral since we arrived. Uncontrolled expressions are a weakness. He finishes the last of his sandwich and I go to stand up. “Don’t you want to finish your lunch?”  
“The bread is dry.” A smile bursts across his face and he laughs. Finally, I have said something right. Agent Barton is an odd man.  
“You’re right, it is. Next time, we’ll go out to lunch There’s a sub shop nearby.” I follow him into the elevator, and he pushes the button for the top floor. He knocks on the door to an office. A brass nameplate is embossed with _N. Fury_. I try to run through all the possible scenarios in my head in the few seconds it takes for him to answer. None of them are pleasant.  
“What?” rings out into the hallway.  
“It’s Barton and Black Wid- Romanova.” He opens up the door. Coulson and Fury are in the middle of a discussion, and a younger agent with dark brown hair stands off to the side. I can see her picking me apart in her head. I try to stand with dignity, despite the fact that I am swimming in sweats three sizes too big, have no shoes, and there is blood caked in my hair. _You are made of marble_.  
“Can’t you see we are in the middle of something? Could this not wait?”  
“No sir,” Agent Barton shifts from one foot to the other.  
“Natalia, tell them what you just told me.” I turn to him and knit my eyebrows together.  
“About the bread?” The female agent chokes back a laugh.  
“Barton,” Fury warns.   
“No. The other thing, about your leg.”  
“Oh,” I move attention back to fury. “My leg should be healed within one to two days.” I want to be introduced to the woman. I don’t like not knowing who I am talking to.  
“What do you mean?” Coulson asks.  
“It is a gunshot wound, and it didn’t hit any organs or bone. I will be fine in two days at the most.”  
“Hill, darken the room.” Hill, the woman, pulls something up on her table and types quickly. Quickly. The humming of computers disappears. I can’t think of why they have to shut off all the tech in the room. Fury’s face gives away nothing. Madame B would be impressed. “Barton, what is going on?” I look between the two of them. Is this an inconvenience? Did they need me to do something immediately?  
“If you need me in the field, I can go in now. It wouldn’t be a problem.”  
“We are not sending you into the field,” Fury snaps. Ever? What will they have me do? Interrogation. Though, I have never been particularly good at it within an office setting. “I want you to explain to me why it is that you will be fine in two days when last night I was told you were bleeding out in a hotel room.” This is an odd request, but a look over at Agent Barton tells me I have to answer.  
“Healing is the act or process of curing or restoring to the condition of an organism or one of its parts to which it performs its vital functions normally or properly.” Hill and Barton snicker. I don’t know what was funny. I didn’t mess up the definition.  
“I’m fully aware what healing is. I would like to know why yours is so fast.” I didn’t know it was fast. I rack my brain, trying to figure out why. I am surprised when I look into Fury’s eye, I see kindness.  
“They experimented on us. That may have played a role.” The thought of being tested on again sends shivers down my spine. They finally stopped after graduation. Now there were only the wipes. I can handle that.  
“You aren’t turning her into a lab rat,” Agent Barton steps in front of me. I don’t need protecting, but it is a kind gesture, and I appreciate the advocacy.  
“I want Romanova’s files locked. The only people who will be granted access are in this room, and Dr. Fine. He will be the only one permitted to give medical treatment.” Fury looks over at hill. “Romanova, you will be going with Hill. She is going to get you some documents and a new name.” he stands up, “I am allowing you to become an agent, don’t fuck it up.”  
“Yes sir.”  
“Come on Nat,” Agent Barton offers as Agent Hill turns to leave.  
“Barton, stay.” Fury calls out. Coulson gives me a nod to follow Hill without my all.

She walks briskly down the hall, taking no account for my leg. I like her already. She uses a keycard to enter her office and I follow.  
“You can sit,” she offers, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of her desk. I perch myself on the edge. “Okay, we are going to get you set up with a drivers license and passport. They will pass as legit.”  
“Since the government is issuing them, aren’t they technically legitimate?” Hill smiles and lets out a snort.  
“Good point,” They like it when I say my thoughts here. They want to hear what I have to say. In the Red Room, I was considered mouthy, opinionated. Here, it seems to be valued. “Do you have any ideas of what you want your name to be?” I run through the name books I have memorized. “You can take your time,” she offers quietly. I liked Barton’s nickname for me, I want to keep it. It makes me feel human. Madame B would smack me if she knew I thought that. I can almost feel the sting on my cheek.  
“Natasha Romanoff,” I reply, “The Americanized version of my name. It seems fitting.”  
“Do you know your date of birth?”  
“July 4, 1984.”  
“You, a Russian assassin, has the Fourth of July as a birthday?”  
“I promise you; the irony has not escaped me either.”  
“Height?”  
“Five foot three,” I quickly convert from metric to imperial. She types into the computer.  
“I got you an apartment next to Barton. Fury won’t admit this, but he’s putting Clint on babysitting duty. You are an unknown variable. Fury doesn’t do well with unknowns.  
“I am getting an apartment?” Hill gives me the same look Barton had earlier, like I have three heads.  
“What did you expect? A cell?” I don’t answer her. “It’s a good apartment. Lots of space. We put eight grand in your bank account to start you off.” I wait for her to say more. “That’s all I’ve got for you, Romanoff.” I can’t stop the smile that slips out upon hearing my new name. “The printer should be done come on.”  
Outside her office, she hands me a license, passport, and social security card.  
“Congratulations, you’re officially a US citizen.”  
“Hi, how’d it go?” Agent Barton is walking down the hall. He is holding my purse and heels. Both are offered to me, upon looking in the purse, I see my gun is gone.  
“Meet Natasha Romanoff, Agent of SHIELD.”

I sit in the passenger seat of his pickup truck, looking as we drive past cherry blossom trees.  
“So Maria got you an apartment?”  
“Yes, next door to you.” I look over at him. He has his eyes trained on the road in concentration.  
“You can stay with my fiancé and I until you get some furniture. We can go out tomorrow. Get you some clothes too.” He turns on the radio, trying to fill the silence.  
“Why do you have a truck if you live in the city?”  
“Laura hates it too,” Barton groans. “But someday, I want to move out to the country, buy a farm. Have a bunch of kids. I guess its nice to have a little bit of that now.” I’m surprised by the honesty of the answer, the openness.  
“That sounds nice,” We reach a four-story apartment building  
“Here we are, home sweet home. There’s an Italian place across the street, and a great coffee shop.” I follow him up two flights of stairs until we reach the third floor. “We’re 308, and you’re 310.” He unlocks the door to 308. “We’ll get your keys from the super tomorrow.” Inside, I am greeted by a sunny apartment. There is a large white couch covered in pillows and a round dining table with fresh cut flowers.  
“Honey, I’m home, and I brought company,”  
“Is it Maria again?” A petite brunette steps out of what must be the kitchen. She wears hospital scrubs and her hair is pilled on top of her head. “Hi, I’m Laura,” she sticks out her hand.  
“Natasha,” I offer, shaking her hand.  
“Nat is going to stay with us for a few nights until her apartment is ready next door. She just joined SHIELD.”  
“Well congratulations. And no dorms? You must be good.” Laura grins.  
“The best,” Clint tells her. Dorms? There are people who live in the building and they trusted me to live off campus? “Do you like tacos?” Agent Barton asks, heading into the kitchen, “It’s Tuesday,”  
“So, Natasha, where are you from?” Laura asks.  
“Nat’s from Russia,” He calls over his shoulder as he looks through the fridge.  
“Oh, when did you move here?”  
“She moved here last night, officially became a US citizen about an hour ago.”  
“She can speak for herself, Clint.” Something isn’t right. This is too nice. Too normal.  
“Why are you doing this?”  
“Hm?” He turns around, holding a bag of shredded cheese.  
“What do you want from me?” I have been so blind. I walked right into someone’s house with this ridiculous notion that he was going to help me with no other ulterior motive. Everything comes with a price. “I won’t kill kids anymore.” I try to sound firm, but my voice wavers. Weak. The smile slips from Laura’s face. “I am not going to kill any children.” I am stronger this time, no hesitation.  
“Natasha, I don’t want anything from you.” Agent Barton stops preparing dinner. “You just defected from the most dangerous criminal organization in the world. I just figured you could use some help. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”  
“You don’t want me to kill anyone? Torture anybody? Extort?” He shakes his head. “Do you want sex?”  
“God, no.” He blanches. What am I supposed to do? What purpose am I supposed to serve? Barton places a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch. He backs off quickly, sadness painted across his face. Laura is staring at me with a new worry in her eyes. I don’t understand why. No one is reacting the way I expect. “You just needed someone to give you a chance to be someone else,”  
“Who do you want me to be?”  
“Yourself,”  
“I don’t know who that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!! Next chapter will be out Thursday or Friday!  
> As always, comments are always welcome and appreciated!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Another week in quarantine almost done, hopefully it will be over soon! I actually posted this chapter last night, but deleted it almost immediately because I wasn't pleased with it. So after a round of revisions, here you are!! Enjoy! As always, feedback is always welcome and appreciated!

I step out of the bathroom in the pajamas Laura leant me. It took three washes to get the blood out of my hair. I should be back in Russia by now, in the Red Room. I would be giving them a briefing of what occurred. They would decide whether or not to let me keep the memory.  
“I made you some tea,” Laura holds out a mug with butterflies on it. The handle has been glued back on.  
“Thank you,” I take a sip, ignoring the part of my brain telling me it might be poisoned. “It’s good, I’ve never had this kind before.”  
“It’s chamomile. Normally, I would add honey, but we’re out.” She smiles at me, “I drink it whenever I have had a particularly rough day at work. It always helps mellow me out.” The flowery smell of the tea fills the hall. “We were going to sit down and watch some TV; do you want to join us?” I grip the mug. Is she being polite, or do they actually want me there? Why would they want me there? I have already invaded their home, taken their food, their clothing. “You don’t have to; I understand if you’re too tired. This must have been a lot for you.”  
“Laura, hurry up and grab Natasha. I’m not going to keep waiting for you,” Agent Barton calls out from down the hall in the living room.  
“We would love for you to join us,” Laura says kindly. I follow her to the living room and sit on an armchair, pulling my legs up.  
“I picked this up from Blockbuster a few days ago, a movie about spies,” Barton offers with a grin, “ _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_.” I finish my tea and place it on the end table, watching the film. Laura falls asleep on her husband’s shoulder twenty minutes in. The end credits begin to roll. Barton gently prods Laura awake and she heads to their bedroom. “What did you think?”  
“It was good.” I head over to the sink and wash my mug. There is another butterfly at the bottom of the mug.  
“Come on, I’ll show you your room.” He opens a door, revealing a spare bedroom. “Do you need anything? Water? Advil?” There are no handcuffs, and the solid wood headboard doesn’t even have a place to put them. On missions was one thing, but in your regular bed? What is to stop me from running off? From hurting someone? From someone hurting me? “Nat?” Is this another thing that is wrong with me? “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best.”  
“I am fine, Agent Barton. Thank you for your hospitality.” I give him a smile, trying my best to imitate the ones he gave me earlier.  
“Alright, well if you need anything, I’m right next door.” There is no lock on the door. I look at the chair in the corner, there is a quilt draped over it. Gently, I place the quilt on the ground and place the chair itself under the doorknob, locking it shut. The tension in my shoulders decreases. I lie down on the bed, pushing down the covers. When my face presses into the pillow, the sweet smell of lavender fills my senses. I turn onto my back, spreading out my arms. I can just reach either side of the bed. I am free.  
I wake up in the morning to the smell of bacon wafting into the room. I look over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, I slept eight hours. That is too long. It is too comfortable here, I am too comfortable here. It has only been one day and I’m letting my guard down. I pull the chair away from the door and step out into main portion of the apartment.  
“Good morning Natasha, I’m making eggs and bacon. Are you hungry?” Barton smiles at me. “There’s coffee in the pot, you can help yourself.” I take the same mug I had yesterday, pouring myself a cup. “So, I was thinking we could do some shopping today? Get you some necessities? Shopping is more Laura’s thing, but she had to go to work. She’s a trauma nurse.”  
“That is appropriate, given your profession.” Barton laughs.  
“You know, you’re pretty funny,” He gives me a lopsided grin, similar to one I saw yesterday. It seems genuine. “You don’t have to do that,” His smile disappears. I stop eating, trying to figure out what I have been doing wrong. “You have been analyzing everything I say and do. I have no ulterior motive here. Someone did the same for me two years ago, I want to pass on the favor. Someday, you’ll do the same.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I got caught up in some shady stuff. My parents died when I was twelve, and it was just me and my brother. We joined this travelling circus, really a bunch of crooks. They taught me to shoot a bow and arrow. I spent eighteen years working for this guy. Barney, my brother, was long dead, but I had nowhere else to go. Robberies, home invasions. Nothing too serious. Then, one day, my boss picked the wrong guy to rob: Coulson. I surrendered, but my team didn’t. Coulson offered me a chance to change my life. He thought I was redeemable.”  
“I am sorry for the loss of your parents and brother. That must have been difficult.” I reach forward and gently tap his hand, unsure what sort of comfort I should be offering. This seems to work, as he smiles at my attempt. His crimes are nothing compared to mine. I pick at my eggs.  
“Nat, look at me,” I reluctantly do as he asks. His eyes are kind, “You are a lot more than the things they made you do. I know that you said you don’t know who you are, but in the two days I have known you, I already do. You are kind, merciful, and funny. Those are excellent qualities, and not ones that could be given to you by the Red Room.” My heart swells at the compliment. Traits I had been told were my weaknesses for more than twenty-years, here they are valued.  
“How much do you know about the Red Room, Agent Barton?”  
“Some,” he frowns, “Enough to know not to pressure you into talking about it. I know you have this whole stoic soldier bit going on, but if you need to talk, I’m here.” I go back to eating my eggs, becoming uncomfortable. How much is some? What do they truly know about me? “Sorry, I am just a bit of an open book. I forget others aren’t the same.”  
“You mentioned shopping,”  
“Yes, right. There’s a mall nearby,” he reaches into his coat pocket, “And this is from SHIELD, I forgot to give it to you last night.” He presents a cell phone. “All the contacts you need are programmed in. And Laura put some clothes in the bathroom for you,”  
I meet him by the front door a few minutes later, my feet squeezed into a pair of Laura’s sneakers. We drive to the mall and follow him into stores, letting him pick out items for me. His cell phone rings, and he leaves me with the boy measuring my foot. Barton returns a moment later, once the boy has gone to fetch me a pair of shoes.  
“Unfortunately, they need me back at headquarters for some paperwork. Are you okay here? Do you want to come?” Choices. Always choices. “Decisions are yours to make, Natasha. I am not going to tell you what to do. That is Fury and Coulson’s job.”  
“What do they want?”  
“My ass back at headquarters,” he sighs. “Will you be okay for an hour? Is this a bad idea?”  
“I can survive an hour in the mall.” I am beginning to get annoyed. It isn’t as though I am a child. I am a trained assassin.  
“Promise you won’t kill anyone,” I resist the urge to ask inane, speculative questions. What if there is a robbery? Or a terrorist attack? Instead I nod.  
“You are worrying for nothing. I will be fine.”  
It turns out, I am not fine. The pimply teenager presents me with three different styles of sneakers. I compare them for nearly a half hour, and he is of little help. I shove my feet back into Laura’s too small shoes, rushing from the store.  
“Do you want a free sample?” someone asks, holding out a tray.  
“Would you be interested in trying our new perfume?”  
“Ma’am, we would love to get your opinion on the current state of our climate,” A clipboard is shoved towards me. I back up quickly, making a break for the parking lot. I sit on the curb, trying to calm my heart rate. How is it that I can kill ten people in as many seconds, but answering simple questions sends me into a panic? No one else was having trouble shopping. They actually seemed to be enjoying it. I can’t just sit here and wait for Barton. I walk through the parking lot, towards the back of the mall. I need to do something other than sit still. I have never felt so worthless, pathetic. I find myself at the edge of a car dealership’s lot, sharing a property line with the mall. A car in the corner catches my eye. It is ancient compared to those around it and has been covered in a thick layer of pollen, the others all freshly cleaned. I come to the halting realization that I want it. I do not need it; it is not necessary to my survival. But I want this car. Decisions are mine to make.  
Forty-five minutes and seven thousand dollars later, it’s mine. They wash it for me, and the glossy black paint shines under the late March sun. It purrs as I drive it down the highway. I have a strange feeling in my chest. I could only describe it as lightness. This is freedom, choice. This is what it feels like to make choices. It isn’t crippling, it is the complete opposite. I pull into the parking lot of the apartment building. My cell phone begins to ring.  
“Hello?”  
“Natasha, it’s Clint. I am in the mall, where are you?”  
“I left,” I hold the keys to my new car in my hand. A Porsche Spyder. Startingly appropriate. If I were the sentimental type, I would say it was meant to be.  
“What do you mean you left? Where are you?”  
“I am at the apartment.”  
“How did you get there? Don’t answer that, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I admire my car. The black leather interior is soft and worn. The buttons for the radio have long since lost their labels, but it is mine. Barton’s truck pulls into the lot. I climb out from my car smiling, perhaps a little proud.  
“What the fuck Natasha? Could you not stay at the mall for one hour? Where did you get that car?” The smile slips from my face.  
“I bought it,” I don’t understand his anger.  
“You bought a car? Why on Earth would you buy a car?”  
“Because I wanted it,” But my confidence wavers. I did something wrong. He is angry, furious even.  
“What about furniture? How are you going to buy anything for your apartment?”  
“I’ll be fine,” I reply, feeling small. But I make sure I come off as confident, flippant even. No weakness.  
“Just get inside.” I follow him into the building. “I’m going to take a shower. Just stay in the apartment, okay?”  
Money. The issue is money. I can fix that. I can take care of it. I go over to the desktop computer by the dining area and begin to type quickly. I watch the clock, the knowledge of what is about to occur racing in my mind. Ten minutes later, I have thirty thousand dollars.  
“Agent Barton, I fixed it.” I offer as he steps out of the bathroom.  
“Fixed what?” he frowns.  
“You were upset I spent all of my money, so I got more.” His face pales.  
“How?”  
“A mark last week told me about an announcement he was making today, an oil company. I bought stock and sold off right after his announcement.”  
“How did you get the money to buy stock?” He is grinding his teeth.  
“Oh, I hacked the New York Stock Exchange. It only takes a few seconds.”  
“You just broke countless laws,”  
“They won’t catch me, don’t worry. I have done this before.”  
“That isn’t the problem here!.”  
“I can do it for you too. Tomorrow,”  
“No! Jesus Christ. You can’t just do things like that. The ethics, the morals. You participated in insider trading, you manipulated the world economy, hacked into Wall Street!” He snaps, his fists clenched. I back away, getting ready for a fight. I made things worse. So much worse. I fixed the problem. I got money. I didn’t hurt anyone. It isn’t as though I robbed a bank or held someone at gunpoint. I can feel my mask slipping. What is wrong with me? He is acting as though these are basic rules, rules I should know. His muscles are coiled. Do I fight or take the hits? I don’t want to hurt him. “Shit, wait. Nat, I’m sorry. That wasn’t,” he fumbles. I don’t know what he wants me to do.  
“I am going to go down to the super’s office and get the keys to my apartment. I am sorry for upsetting you, Agent Barton.”   
The apartment is nearly identical to the one Agent Barton and Laura share. Though this one is empty. There is no furniture or pictures on the walls. Not that I need those things. A roof is plenty, more than I have had on many missions. But this is not a mission. This is where I live now. For now. I screwed up. They are going to punish me. Perhaps they will be lenient and put me back in the cell. But, it could be like the Red Room. They could put me in sensory deprivation. Or flaying. Or injections. I am breathing too quickly, losing control. I could run. I have a car now. But they would catch me, just as they had before. I had the backing of the Red Room before. Now, I will be on my own. No place in this world, no one but myself. And I couldn’t even purchase shoes without falling into a panic. Something is broken inside of me. I have to fix this. I can do better. I can be better.  
The sun has set by the time I have returned to the apartment. I take a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel before turning off the car. Despite the troubles it has caused, I have nothing but affection for it. The keycard to the building beeps, letting me inside. I reach the third floor and go to unlock the door to my apartment.  
“Natasha!” The door to Agent Barton’s apartment opens. “Where have you been?”  
“I wasn’t aware you needed to know where I was every moment,”  
“I thought you left,” he looks scared.  
“I took care of it.” I tell him, crossing my arms.  
“What do you mean?” he face pales. “Just please, come inside.” I step into his apartment with some apprehension. Laura isn’t here. It’s just the two of us. “Please tell me what you mean when you say you took care of it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.  
“I drove around and donated it to different charities.”  
“You did what?” I see his features soften.  
“I got rid of it, it was dirty money. I am sorry for violating your morals.”  
“You donated all of it?”  
“Yes.” I hold his gaze, remaining impassive. “I will be fine without furniture. I have suffered worse.”  
“I can’t believe you donated thirty thousand dollars, that’s so,” he smiles, “Amazing.” I duck my head, surprisingly embarrassed by the compliment. “But you don’t have to go without furniture, we can just get some next week when we get paid.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“We get paid biweekly.”  
“You get paid?” The same worry that Laura had last night appears. It isn’t worry, its pity.  
“I’m sorry for earlier. Things were rough at HQ and I overreacted.”  
“I mean, I did hack the largest economy in the world. Perhaps your anger was warranted.” I allow this small concession. Barton laughs a little at my struggling admission. It would be a stretch to call it an apology, but hopefully it is enough. I am not truly sorry for it. The only thing I am remorseful about is upsetting him after he has shown me nothing but kindness.  
“You’re not alone in this, Nat, okay? It’s okay to need some help.”  
“I don’t need anyone.” I bite back automatically. He doesn’t flinch at my sharp words.  
“I know, but its still okay to accept it, make your load a little lighter.” I consider his words carefully. “You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just watch the hockey game.” He pulls out a bottle of beer, and I take it from him. He sighs, grabbing another from the fridge. I push it against the side of the side of the counter, popping off the cap. Barton rolls his eyes and pulls a bottle opener from the kitchen drawer next to him. “You know, you’re a good person. I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”  
“I’m glad I didn’t kill you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much more lighthearted chapter! I hope you all liked it. New chapter will be out this weekend. Thank you for following along with my story! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4!! Please enjoy! I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy! As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated :)

Agent Barton mutes the TV when the commercials begin. I look over at him as he takes a sip of his beer, seemingly to gather courage. For what, I can’t imagine.  
“Can I level with you, Nat?” he asks, “Do you know what that means?”  
“Agent Barton, my English skills exceed that of most native speakers.”  
“Sorry,” he sighs. “They didn’t want me at HQ today to sign paperwork.” I nod, figuring as much. You don’t call someone in on their day off for paperwork. “It was a meeting with out security council, about you.”  
“Then I should have been there.”  
“No, it’s good you weren’t. I told them you were sleeping and Laura left work to watch you.” I bristle at this statement, I don’t need tot be babysat. “Yeah, not ideal. I know. But Nat, they are scared.” He finishes off his beer. “They want to put you on trial for your crimes, punish you. They are especially upset about the six SHIELD agents you have killed in the past four years.” I shift and one of the many throw pillows tumbles to the ground. “Fury and Coulson advocated for you, they said you wanted to change. That your crimes weren’t your choice. They also questioned your medical documents. It took a statement from Dr. Fine to convince them you aren’t.”  
“Why would you all lie for me?”  
“Because, you haven’t been dealt a fair hand in life. You deserve this chance. Those guys want to take it away.” I don’t deserve this chance. I have done horrible things. I have killed hundreds of people. “They are going to put you on a six-month probation. If you can prove within six months that you’ve changed, then they’ll drop the charges. They aren’t that stupid; they would rather have you with them than against them. This means you cannot break any laws over the next six months. Not even a parking ticket.”  
“I understand.”  
“I’m sorry for how I reacted earlier. I really couldn’t give a flying fuck that you stole from Wall Street,” I raise my eyebrows at the colorful language. “But if you get caught, Nat, they will torture you. There is nothing me, Fury, Coulson, or Hill could do to stop them.”  
“I will try to be better. I am trying to be better.”  
“I know.” He exhales, leaning back into the couch. “Laura should be home soon. For now, we can watch the hockey game. We’ll worry about everything else tomorrow.”

I step into the kitchen of the apartment the next morning. Laura had just left for a shift at the hospital, though last night they had introduced me to the show _Lost_ , along with Laura's spaghetti sauce. Barton leans forward on the counter, a cup of coffee clutched in his hands. He looks stressed, exhausted. It’s my fault.  
“Agent Barton,” He straightens up.  
“You know you can just call me Clint, I’m not your commanding officer or anything. And we’re not at work.”  
“I am sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.”   
“It’s fine.” He sounds resigned.  
“Maybe, I can relieve your stress?” I offer. In the KGB, when agents were particularly riled up, they’d send them to me. Perhaps that is what Barton needs? Confusion passes over his face. I begin to lift up my shirt.  
“Jesus, Natasha, stop!” he snaps. I let my shirt drop, confused.  
“I don’t understand, you are stressed. Sex releases endorphins, it will help.”  
“Besides the fact that I have a fiancé, I don’t want to have sex with you.”  
“Okay.” I agree, going to pour myself a cup of coffee. “Running has also proven to be an excellent stress reliever. We could go for a run.”  
“Wait, back up.” I turn around with the cup of coffee, black.  
“You changed your mind?”  
“No, good God.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did you only want to have sex with me to relieve my stress?”  
“Yes.” I take a sip of the coffee.  
“You aren’t physically attracted to me?” I smirk.  
“Agent Barton, you are an attractive man, but not my type.”  
“Why would you think that is okay? To use your body like that?” I falter.  
“I don’t understand,” What is he saying? “I assure you; I am very skilled. I was trained for years.” He looks like he is going to be sick. “While I want to delve into all that is wrong with that statement, I am not a mark.”  
“No, but I wanted to help.”  
“Nat, sit down. I want to explain something to you.” I warily do as he asks.  
“You are never to sleep with a fellow agent because he asks you to. Okay?” I roll my eyes. “Natasha! I am serious. Someone could take advantage of you,”  
“I am always in control,” I insist. Why is he being like this?  
“Just promise me you won’t. It will make things worse.”  
“What if it is a request from a superior?”  
“No. Definitely no.” I am so confused. Ignore a direct request from a superior. That is suicide. I came here in order to not die.  
“Even if it is an order?” I clarify nervously.  
“Especially if it is an order.” He looks pale. “I will take you up on that offer for a run though. Did you get your sneakers yesterday?”  
“No. I’m sorry Agent Barton. I will buy them today.”  
“You don’t have to apologize to me all the time. I’m your partner and I want to be your friend. Pleasing me isn’t the end all be all.”  
“But you saved me. I want to make sure it was worth it for you.”  
“Yeah, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

* * *

Two weeks later, we get our first assignment. I pull on my new black leather suit, excited by the prospect of finally doing something. I was becoming antsy, impatient. I could tell Agent Barton was too. I finally moved into my own place last week, though Laura still insisted I come for dinner every night. Not that I could blame her. All attempts she has made to teach me how to cook have ended in flames, literally. I join Barton in Fury’s office. Coulson stands behind the director, seeming nervous.  
“We’ll be fine. We both have gone over the mission briefing a dozen times. We’ve got this, right Nat?”  
“Yes. Retrieve the data, shut down the operation.”  
“If possible. I don’t want any unnecessary risk. If needed, we can send in a more experienced team.”  
“What is it that the scientists are working on?” Barton asks. I give him a look. He shouldn’t be questioning them. Our assignment is clear. Knowing what we are obtaining isn’t necessary.  
“They are working on developing a drug that causes a massive release of adrenaline.” Fury explains.  
“So, like, when a mom can pick up a car to save her baby?” Barton confirms.  
“Exactly. Except, last week they announced on the dark web that they would be selling the formula to the highest bidder. Right now, the top two are major terrorist organizations.”  
“We’ll be in and out, sir.” Barton tells him.  
“You’re dismissed. We’ll expect to hear from you in twelve hours.” I follow Barton out of the room.  
“Why did you question Fury’s orders?”  
“I didn’t. I just wanted to know why we were doing this.”  
“Why does that matter?” I press, following him to the hanger bay.  
“Because I want to make sure I’m on the right side. If I didn’t agree, I could turn down the mission.” Turn down missions. The thought is ridiculous. But I won’t tell him that, it will just create a tension between us that shouldn’t exist for missions.  
I sit beside Barton in the quinjet. Our flying lesson two days ago was my favorite. It was exhilarating, even if it had made my partner airsick. Flying the quinjet was like controlling an extension to myself. The flight to Fargo, North Dakota takes only three hours. The facility will be closed for the weekend. There should only be one or two guards there. In and out. It is something the Red Room would have sent me to do when I was twelve. However, getting back in the field is all that matters.  
“Alright Nat, should we go through the plan again?”  
“No. I’ve got it, Hawkeye.” I tease, using his codename. We begin our descent and the cloaking, a recently added feature to the jets, turns on.  
I jump out nimbly, and Barton more cautiously. It is much colder here than in Washington. The chilly air is invigorating, prodding all my senses awake. The pine needles crunch quietly beneath our feet as we make our way through the forest.  
“Hey Nat,”  
“Hm?” I look over at him, wondering if there was something I missed.  
“Why couldn’t the evergreen ever land a date?” I knit my brows together. Is he serious right now? “It was so busy pining after unavailable trees that it never really branched out.” I give him a small smile.  
“I think your jokes could use a little _sprucing_ up, Agent Barton.” A ridiculously large grin breaks across his face.  
We reach the edge of the forest, and the tree line becomes thin. A large metal industrial building looms before us. I had tried to insist on accessing the building through the roof earlier, but my idea had been shot down by both Barton and Coulson. Though, I have a feeling my hunch was right. Instead, I pick the locks to the side door, one that is in a blind spot for the security cameras. The lock clicks and I pull the door open, following Barton inside. The facility is quiet save for the humming of the HVAC.  
“Something isn’t right,” I murmur. We slink forward, keeping our eyes on the security cameras. We have to get to the west wing where the labs are. A door opens at the end of the hall. A security guard makes eye contact with us. He reaches for his radio. I sprint forward and jump up, locking his head between my thighs.  
“Don’t kill him!” Barton hisses. I strangle him until he is unconscious instead, hoping off his shoulders. The whole ordeal takes seconds. “You can’t,”  
He doesn’t have time to finish his thought. A gunshot goes off, just barely clipping my arm. More security is flooding the halls. He probably radioed for help in the five seconds longer it took me to neutralize rather than kill him. This is not weekend security. Barton pulls out his bow and arrow.  
“Get to the lab. I’ve got this, go!” I run down the hall, the building plans memorized. Left, straight, left, right. Corridor C. I approach the double doors cautiously. From the crack in the bottom, I can see the lights are on in the lab. Americans, such workaholics. I’m going to have to go in, no matter the scene that lay before me. Subtly will not be an option. This is a large open lab. It is possible there are guards in here too. But it doesn’t matter. Mission comes first. Nothing can come between me and the mission.  
I open the door and stroll in. This gives me a moment to access the situation. Five scientists. Three of them working on computers. One over a microscope, one with a centrifuge. The later notices me first. I am surprised when he charges me, a metal pick in his hand. He is going for my chest, but I pull him in quickly, letting him plunge it into my thigh, knowing by the trajectory it will hit nothing important. It in fact gives me an advantage, as he ran to me. I hold him up against me by the lanyard. The other four scientists have seen me now. One of them reaches under the desk and pulls out a gun. These scientists are hardly the docile type I expected. They aren’t being contracted. They are the ones selling the drug. Clever, take out the middleman. I wouldn’t be surprised if the middleman was actually dead in his office upstairs.  
“Let him go,” the scientist with the gun commands. Seriously? Is it not obvious I have the upper hand? I reach down and pull the metal rod out of my leg. It clatters to the ground in the silent lab.  
“Killing all of you is not part of my goal, though if you do not get out of my way, you leave me no choice.”  
“Do you know the payday we are going to get from this? That isn’t going to happen.” I sigh, thinking of my options. A shot rings out and I see, despite his bad aim, the shot landed close to my head. The other three scientists are approaching slowly. Like they are getting the element of surprise by their snail’s pace. Okay, screw this. I pull out my gun, quickly shooting the armed scientist. The pull the lanyard of my hostage tight, until I feel his windpipe snap. Two of the remaining charge me, while the third goes for his fallen companion’s gun. I kill all three in seconds. That was inconvenient, messy. The sterile white lab is now covered in red. I jump forward, avoiding the growing rivers of blood, pocketing the gun.  
“Oh my God, what did you do?” I turn and see Barton, his face ashen upon looking at the carnage.  
“Agent Barton,” I go to explain.  
“Natasha, you can’t just go storming to the facility and start killing!” I narrow my eyes, irritated.  
“They were our targets, right?”  
“Yes, but that’s not the point.” He is getting increasingly frustrated. “Especially if they are unarmed and don’t resist.”  
Oh, that is rich. Unarmed. Nonresistant. Just a bunch of peaceful scientists. He’s my partner, as he has said many times. I don’t have to justify my actions to him. I report to Fury and Coulson. I examine the scene once more and go over to the computer, sticking in the flash drive. After quickly typing in some codes, the data transfer begins. Now we wait.  
“I know it’s our first mission, but I thought you wanted to be better.” I tighten my jaw. Does he really think I would kill just for the thrill of it? Just because I want to? “You’re what, seventeen? Seventeen-year-olds shouldn’t do this,”  
“I’m not seventeen,” I cross my arms, trying to hide my amusement. I thought when he had been saying I was a kid, it was in a general term, as in younger than him. He actually thought I was a child.  
“Sorry, eighteen.” He rolls his eyes, clearly irritated.  
“I’m not eighteen either,” My enjoyment is melting away, the implications of his statement hitting me. This fear I have had since I did turn eighteen. This possibility I had been ignoring.  
“Are you sixteen? Younger?” The computer beeps.  
“I am twenty-one, almost twenty-two.” I turn away from him and back to the computer, finishing the transfer.  
“That’s not possible,” I can hear the disbelief in his voice.  
“July 4th, 1984,” My hair falls in front of my face.  
“But you look so young,”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“Good genes?” He asks jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.  
“Hardly.” I pull out the flash drive. “Sorry for killing a bunch of evil scientists. Let’s go.” I toss him the drive and march out of the room. We get back to the quinjet and I can feel Barton’s anger returning. The Minneapolis SHIELD team has just arrived for cleanup, clearing us to leave. I drop my gun and the one I acquired from the scientist onto the table in the center. The blood loss from my arm and leg have me feeling woozy.  
“Where did you get that gun? That isn’t SHIELD issued,” Barton accuses.  
“I took it from the scientist that shot at me,” I snap, losing my patience. I pull out the first aid kit and peel off my suit. The wound on my leg is bleeding heavily, though the black catsuit had been doing a good job at hiding it.  
“Oh my God, Nat.”  
“Yeah, unarmed and didn’t resist. Definitely,” I cover the puncture wound with layers of gauze and then begin to work on my arm as well.  
“Here, let me help.” He offers, going to clean the wound on my arm.  
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, “I just assumed,”  
“Despite popular belief, Agent Barton, I don’t enjoy the act of killing.” I wince as he pours antiseptic onto the wound without warning. “I asked them to surrender, even after that bastard stabbed me. But then one of them shot at me.”  
“I am your partner; I should have trusted your judgement.”  
“No. You shouldn’t have. You don’t know me well enough to trust my judgement. Though I did hope you knew me enough to know I wouldn’t kill someone without reason.” I pull away, ashamed by how hurt I am by his assumption. I push it down.  
“You were right that we should have gone with roof access. We would have avoided encountering the guards, I looked at their patrol logs. They didn’t check that access point very often.”  
“No one ever thinks of someone coming in from above.” I manage to get the tight suit over the bandages.  
“I’m going to work on trusting you, Nat. Okay?” I go over to the pilot’s seat. “Next time I accuse you of something, just tell me I’m wrong. What you did was justified, and I’m sorry.” I nod, pulling the jet up off the ground. “Will you still come for dinner tonight? We’re making pizza,” He sounds so hopeful. I realize maybe, he need a friend as much as I do. Despite his ranking in SHIELD, it seems outside of the small circle I have been brought into, Agent Barton has no one else. I sigh.  
“Yes, I am still coming for dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be out in a few days!! Thank you all for following along :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *****Trigger warning for accidental self-harm and PTSD*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5! Thank you all for your comments on the last chapter!! I really appreciate it! As always, any feedback is and welcome and appreciated! I love comments! Seriously! I appreciate every single one!!

“I know twenty-one isn’t that much older than seventeen, but it makes me feel a hell of a lot better about all this.” Barton sighs as we leave Fury’s office after the debriefing. “It would have meant you have been killing since you were fourteen.”  
“Nine.” I reply tersely.  
“What?”  
“I was nine the first time I killed someone.” I continue walking towards our cars, Barton no longer next to me, but trailing behind.  
“How could they have had you killing that young?”  
“It’s the most efficient way to whittle down the class.” I can hear the sound of her neck snapping.  
“Natasha, stop.” He commands. I feel my knees lock up. My mind is racing. I don’t know what is wrong with me.  
“Woah, that wasn’t an order. You’re okay.” Barton’s eyes widen.  
“Sorry,” I try to loosen my stance. “I would prefer if we did not talk about my first kill.” I can feel the bones breaking in my hands. The light leaving her eyes. Her body crumbling to the floor.  
“Breathe, Nat. Deep breaths,”  
“I am fine.” I pull away from him, my skin burning where he had laid his hands. My car keys shake in my hand.  
“You know, you can talk to someone. SHIELD has some of the best therapists in the world.”  
“That isn’t necessary,” I stride towards my car. “I will see you back at the apartment.” It isn’t until the car hits ninety-five miles per hour that the thoughts of my first kill begin to melt away. Despite my promise to go to dinner, I find myself in my bare apartment. I sit at the folding card table with my laptop, typing up the mission report. There is someone knocking at my door two hours later, just as I press send. I don’t want to speak to Barton right now. In fact, I realize that all I want to do is sleep.  
“Nat? It’s Laura,” I sigh and get up from the table, my back aching from sitting on a box for so long. It takes a moment to unlock all six locks, but I pull open the door.  
“Hi Laura. Is there something I can help you with?”  
“Can I come in?” She asks, holding out a slice of homemade pizza in front of her. My stomach growls and she smiles knowingly. Reluctantly, I open the door wider. She looks around with a small frown. “I have tomorrow off, we can buy some things for your place.”  
“Thank you, but you don’t have to do that.” I force out a smile. Why is she here?  
“No, it will be fun. And you can’t use a cardboard box as a dining chair.” She hands me the paper plate and I take a bite of the pizza.  
“How is Agent Barton?” I ask.  
“He is fine, no injuries. That is actually why I am here. He said you were shot and stabbed today.”  
“I am fine.”  
“I assume you have a first aid kit?” I nod and she heads to the bathroom, returning a moment later. “Come on, pull down your pants and let me see. I do as she asks, the black sweatpants pooling at my ankles. The gauze is damp with blood. She frowns and peels it back, revealing the wound. “You should be lying down. This is deep.”  
“It will heal on its own soon enough. Thank you for checking in on me. I should be finishing my report.”  
“You can finish it once I am done,” she admonishes. I am surprised by the resolve in her voice. She had seemed rather docile up until this point. “I will be checking your arm next.” She tapes fresh gauze to my leg. “Replace this when you wake up in the morning. It should be okay; the wound is almost closed up.” She checks the stitches Barton did on my arm. “He actually did a decent job on these, but don’t tell him I said that,” she winks conspiratorially.  
“You know what I am, right?” I ask as she finished applying fresh bandages to my arm.  
“You aren’t a what,” Laura packs away the first aid kit. “But yes, I know _who_ you are.”  
“Then why do you still look at me as though I am human?” She freezes, her brow wrinkling.  
“Because you are human.”  
“No. I am a weapon. Even Barton sees that.”   
“He said that?”  
“Yes. But you don’t seem to think so. But you say you know who I am, what I have done.”  
“We aren’t made by our mistakes, Natasha. Who we are is determined by how we learn from them. You didn’t choose the actions that led you here, but you learned from them nonetheless.” Her eyes are kind, “I admire you; you are the strongest person I have ever met.” This woman, this inherently _good_ woman, admires me? “Tomorrow we will have a girl’s day. We can get manicures and have drinks, go shopping. I expect you to be ready to work.” Her smile is infectious. Come by the apartment after lunch tomorrow, okay?”  
“Thank you, Laura.” She gives me another grin and leaves the apartment; I secure the locks and sink to the floor. I am undeserving of her praise and kindness.

The bullet goes in my femur. Weak. Acting without permission. Mercy. I deserve to die. The metal is tight around my wrists, cutting into the skin, rubbing raw against the bone. I wait for death, but it doesn’t come. Even death isn’t as merciful as I am. Even death isn’t as weak.  
I wake up with a gasp. The sheets are twisted around me, drenched in sweat. It wasn’t real. It was just a dream. A memory. There is something sharp prickling at my hand. I look down and see I am gripping a knife by the blade. It woke me up. I didn’t go to bed with the knife. It clatters to the ground and I watch as the blood drips from my hand onto my thigh, the same spot where the bullet went in ten years ago. It is nearly six o’clock, which means I got a full night’s sleep. A small victory. As I finish wrapping my hand, there is another knock on the door. Even I know it is rude to show up at someone’s house before seven. Barton stands out in the hallway, wearing running gear. I pull open the door.  
“Yes?”  
“Do you want to go for a run?” He looks at me hopefully. His fingers drum nervously on his thighs. Something is bothering him.  
“I will get dressed.”  
I meet him outside on the front steps. His face brightens when he sees me, like he didn’t truly expect me to come.  
We are four miles in when we reach the Potomac. He pauses to catch his breath, staring at the water as the sun begins to brighten up the world.  
“Something is bothering you,” He looks surprised, “It is my job to be able to read people.” I remind him.  
“I’m sorry for yesterday, and um,” he runs his fingers through his hair, “I’m also sorry for what I said to Fury, about you being a weapon.” I stretch, trying to find something to do other than look at him. “I know you’re not a weapon, Nat. You’re a person.” His eyes catch on my hand. “What happened?”  
“I cut my hand, it is fine,” I reply stiffly, pulling my sleeve over it. He pulls my hand towards him and I see the blood has soaked through my quilt of Band-Aids.  
“What happened?”  
“I woke myself up, it’s okay.”  
“What do you mean you woke yourself up?”  
“From sleeping,” I roll my eyes. “Come on, we should get back. Laura and I are going shopping.”  
“Actually,” he looks embarrassed, but when his eyes drift to my hand, his stance hardens. “Last night, I made you an appointment at SHIELD.”  
“An appointment,” I clarify.  
“With one of the psychiatrists.”  
“I specifically stated that I did not want to do that.” My heartbeat slows.  
“I know, but,”  
“I thought I was going to have free will now, Agent Barton.”  
“This is for your own good,”  
“The Red Room said the same thing every time they went into my head. What makes you any better?”  
“I am doing this because I actually care about you, I just want you to recognize you went through something traumatic.”   
“Do you think I do not know that I am damaged? It became fairly obvious within minutes me walking into that mall. There is something broken in me, Agent Barton. I do not need a doctor to inform me of that.” I resume our run, pushing myself. Barton breaks into a sprint to keep up. He grabs my arm, pulling me back.  
“Please, slow down.” He huffs. “I just want to help you move on from it all. I went to therapy for years, I still do. It helps.” I clench my jaw. He looks desperate, pleading.  
“Fine. I will do this for you, Agent Barton. If it will put you at ease, and stop your fingers from twitching,” He shoves his hands into his pockets.

We arrive at the SHIELD headquarters in Barton’s truck. I watch as the tram from the Triskelion to the nearest train station putters by.  
“Do people actually take the train here?” I ask, surprised. Barton nods.  
“Some agents live farther out; D.C. traffic is a bitch.”  
We park in the garage and take the elevator to the eighth floor. We step out of the lift and I take a breath. It is going to be fine. I will be fine.  
“Agent Barton, I have to ask that you never do something like this again.” I purse my lips and he opens up the door to the suite of offices. The lights are warm rather than the bright fluorescents of the rest of the building, and a white noise machine blankets the space in a gentle buzz. A fish tank gurgles. The magazines on the coffee table are three months old.  
“You can sit down while we wait,” he offers. I shake my head, standing still. One of the wooden doors opens.  
“Hi, you must be Natasha. I am Doctor Faber, it is nice to me you,” the older woman sticks out her hand. I shake it hesitantly.  
“Nice to meet you.”  
“I’ll be right out here the whole time, got to catch up on pop culture.” Agent Barton holds up one of the gossip magazines.  
“Please, Natasha, sit.” She gestures to the loveseat across from her armchair. I do ask she asks, sitting on the edge. “So how have your first few weeks been?”  
“Fine. Effective.” I look at the clock behind her. Fifty-eight minutes remaining.  
“What do you mean by effective?”  
“I have been training and had my first mission. I have been told I am moving along quickly. Adapting better than they expected.” Fifty-seven minutes.  
“How do you think you have been adapting?”  
“Fine.” I spot a picture on her desk, “Is that your dog?”  
“I am sorry, Agent Romanoff. Diversion will not work on me, I have been working with agents for the better part of twenty years.” I nod, giving nothing away. “You are, however, the first person to escape the KGB that I have had the privilege of treating.” I narrow my eyes. “I do not mean it like that. My apologies.” She tries to give me a disarming smile. “What have you found to be the most difficult in your adjustment?”  
“Choices,” I admit. “I do not enjoy them. There are infinite options. It is not worse than when they were made for me, but it is not better either.” I cross my arms to hide my shaking hands. I say nothing of the nightmares that have begun to plague me, like a child.  
“They did not give you any choices in the Red Room?”  
“I got to choose how to kill someone. Or how to seduce a mark. I am extremely efficient.”  
“What was the punishment for making a choice?” I think of one of my classmates, when she refused to kill her friend. Death by a thousand cuts. It had been my handywork, my suggestion. We had just finished learning about classical torture. Madame B was proud. It took me hours, but the praise I got afterwards was worth the effort. But then I failed. I showed mercy on another girl, a year older. I had been told to give her a slow death, but I had been quick. This girl had been kind to me, she once gave me a piece of her bread. Rather than bleed her out slowly, I had sliced across her throat. The trainers were mad at me, especially Madame B. They injected poison into my veins. Only the strong will survive. Marble. You are made of marble. You will not fail. You will not fail again, Natalia.  
I dig nails my hands into my skull, trying to pry myself from the memory. A doctor stands before me syringe in hand. No. No. I was good. I followed the rules. I only killed who I was allowed. I got the data. I knock her backwards. I was good. No wipe. If you are good Natalia, there will be no wipe. There will be no injections. That is a lie there are always injections. Toxic combinations that set blood on fire. That make thoughts impossibly fast. Top efficiency. No. I was good. I don’t need it. The doctor pushes herself up. I scramble for the door, pulling it open. The doctor rushes after me. You promised if I was good, I wouldn’t need it. You can’t just be good; you have to be the best. I did not fail. I stumble backwards, backing into something. It teeters over with a crash, me along with it. I feel a rush of wetness, along with shards of glass and small pebbles. I push backwards, cornered. I have no choice. I never have a choice. Failing is a choice. I will not fail. I do not fail. Marble. Mramor. I will not fail. Marble. Mramor. I will not fail. Mramor. I will not fail. Ya ne podvedu. Mramor. Ya ne podvedu. Mramor. Mramor. Mramor.  
The world fades to black.

“It was the doctor’s fault!” Mramor.  
“I know that, Barton. No one is blaming Agent Romanoff.”  
“Well it sure sounds like it!” Their words swirl around me like water. They don’t catch on to anything, don’t hold. “She has been repeating the same two things since she woke up two hours ago. She doesn’t even see me when I come in, we can’t even move her. We were finally getting somewhere, and that doctor broke her! She was supposed to go shopping today, she was excited. Do you know how good that was?” Ya ne podvedu.  
“Agent Barton, you do not need to tell me. I am on your side.”  
“She needs to be fired,”  
“We did not give her permission to have sedatives. I promise you that there will be consequences.” Mramor.  
“With how much she was given, we are lucky she is even alive! She wasn’t even out long enough for us to get her to medical,”  
“Agent Barton, I recommend you lower your voice and remember where we are.”  
“Yes sir.” Ya ne podvedu.  
A shadow pauses in front of me. Mramor. I will not fail. I deserved this. I failed. I failed somehow. I questions my superiors’ judgement in entering through the side door. I offered a chance of surrender. I was injured. I hesitated before killing. Mercy. I showed mercy.  
“Natasha,” Mramor. Marble. I will not fail again. I am made of marble. I will not fail. “Nat, come on, look at me.” _Nat_. I know that nickname. It is mine. Agent Barton. I look up and see his face. I failed him. And Coulson. And Fury.  
“Mramor. Ya ne podvedu.” I plead. Just no more. No more please.  
“Natasha, you’re safe, its okay. You didn’t fail.” I shake my head. I failed; I can hear him yelling at me. But he is yelling at me for killing. But I hesitated. That is wrong. I feel like my insides are being torn apart. A guttural groan escapes my lips. Arms wrap around me and I fly back so fast that my heads bounces off the wall. Everything swims back into focus. “I’m sorry, I won’t touch you again, okay?” Agent Barton approaches me slowly. I stand up, looking around the room. I am in an office, a different one than before. “Nat?” I nod, steadying myself. “You’re back with me?”  
“Cognitive recalibration,” I mutter under my breath. I knocked some sense into myself.  
“What?” he looks at me carefully, “You’re okay?” I shake my head, collapsing onto a couch, exhausted.  
“I failed; I am sorry I failed.”  
“What? Nat, you didn’t fail on the mission. If anyone messed up, it was me.”  
“Punishment,” I think slowly, my thoughts cloudy. “This was punishment for failing.”  
“No, this was supposed to be good, it was supposed to help. Fuck, I’m sorry.”  
“I think you and I have very different definitions of good, Agent Barton.” I rub my eyes, trying to get the images of the injections out of my head.  
“I’ll take you home, okay?” I stand up from the couch and follow him blankly, not even sure where we are going.  
We are somehow back at my apartment, in my bedroom. The sheets are still covered in blood, a knife lays on the floor. I reach into the nightstand and pull out the handcuffs I was so foolish into thinking I could go without. I lie down in bed and slip one half onto my right wrist, the other onto the metal headboard. I feel Agent Barton staring at me.  
“It is for my own protection,” I murmur, exhausted. “I am a danger to myself like this, to those around me. They didn’t just break me, Agent Barton. They shattered me and rebuilt me into something else entirely. Something less than human. A monster.”  
“I am so sorry, Natasha.”  
“Not your fault.” I feel myself falling asleep.  
“We’re going to get rid of them. We are going take down the Red Room. I will do everything in my power to make it happen.”  
“That is a nice fantasy, Clint," I whisper, as sleep begins to win, "but fantasies are for children.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked that chapter! Next one will have a bit of a time jump (Budapest!!!)! Updates may be a bit slower in the next two weeks as I am crazy busy with work and school, but I will try to post series updates at least 3 or 4 times a week! Thank you all for following along! :)  
> Also, any requests for plots/scenes you would like to see are welcome!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Questionable consent? Erring on the side of caution, also discussion of abortion *****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> Sorry for the delay in posting. I have been really sick for the past few days. Still not feeling too hot, but I didn't want to leave you all hanging. This chapter was originally supposed to be much longer, leading up to Budapest, I decided Budapest needed its own chapter. Thank you all for following along! I am still taking requests for Kindred for scenes/plots that you would like to see in Kindred. I hope to post the first chapter by the end of the week. I also hope to be back at my normal posting speed soon. Thank you!! And as always, comments are welcome and appreciated :)

Barton has been gone for two weeks, leaving days after my breakdown in the Triskelion. Since then, the nightmares have become more persistent and I have had to handcuff myself every night. The one night I didn’t, I woke up with a throwing knife clutched so close to my chest that I was bleeding.  
Laura insists on having me over for every meal, though I don’t know if it is for her company or mine. Despite myself, I have become comfortable in the Barton’s home. I unlock the door to their apartment, stepping inside. Before I can announce myself, I hear vomiting from the bathroom.  
“Laura?” I knock on the door.  
“Ugh, Nat, hi,” she calls out.  
“Are you okay?” Stupid question, obviously not.   
“I’m fine,” She pulls open the bathroom door, looking worse for wear. I watch as she pours herself some mouthwash and swishes, then spits into the sink. This has been going on for a week. A few days ago, she was so ill she sent me to do the grocery shopping. It was infinitely more enjoyable than shopping for clothing or furniture. I just went off the list and worked within the budget. It felt startlingly normal. I didn’t have a breakdown and buy another car.  
“Can you do me a huge favor?”  
“Yes,” I try to think of what it could be. She and Barton have both done so much for me. “Who do you need me to kill?”  
“Not that type of favor, Nat.” Laura brushes sweat soaked hair from her forehead, “I need you to run to the pharmacy for me.” She bites her lip, “I’m two weeks late.”  
“That is a long time to not pick up a prescription, especially for a nurse.” I pick up my car keys and purse. She looks at me carefully.  
“My period, Nat, its two weeks late. Can you pick up some pregnancy tests for me?”  
“Oh, okay. Sure, I can do that.” My stomach twists at my ignorance.  
“Buy the expensive kind,” Before Laura can say anything else, she is once again running to the bathroom.  
When I return a half hour later, Laura is sitting at the counter, a mug of tea in hand.  
“Peppermint tea, good for nausea,” she explains. I empty the CVS bag onto the counter and nearly a dozen boxes spill out.  
“I didn’t know how many you would need,”  
“Thank you,” she picks up two of the boxes and carries them to the bathroom. I wait outside the door, unsure what I should do. A minute later, Laura opens the door. “Now we wait.”  
“How long?”  
“Three minutes,” She holds two sticks in her hands. “Can I ask you a personal question?”  
“I believe that counts as a question,” I dodge, but then relent. This is clearly to take her mind off the pregnancy test. “Yes,”  
“How did you not know what I meant when I said I was two weeks late?” My heart stops beating. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t have to answer. That was not appropriate,” she babbles. “I think it’s been three minutes,” I look down at the sticks in her hands. Two pink lines stare back at me on each stick.  
Laura runs over to the counter, grabbing the rest of the tests. Ten minutes later, we are sitting on the couch, Laura sobbing.  
“How can we raise a kid? We aren’t married, I work full time, let alone Clint’s job! He is gone for weeks at a time! How the hell am I supposed to raise a kid alone if he dies? This is going to change everything. We haven’t even talked about marriage.”  
“I won’t let him die,” I promise her, fully meaning it. She blinks at me, “And I am sure you will be an excellent mother,” That platitude seems empty coming from me  
“Oh God, my _mother_. She is going to be furious, both my parents. I am only twenty-seven. I am not ready for this,”  
“You can always get rid of it,” I think of a girl in the Red Room a year older than me. One of the trainers impregnated her before the graduation ceremony.  
“No, I can’t!” Laura cries, “I want it, but I don’t.”  
“I think you need to talk to Agent Barton,”  
“Y-you’re right.” She stutters. “Do you know when he will be back?” I shake my head.  
“I can check tomorrow and ask Fury. Okay?” She nods and hugs me tightly. I stiffen, unused to the contact. She pulls away, sensing my discomfort.  
“I’m sorry, Natasha. For what I asked earlier. It wasn’t my place.”  
“It was my breaking point, when I finally gave in,” I admit to her. “Most girls only got their period once or twice; we didn’t have high enough body fat percentages. But the graduation ceremony,” _It’s necessary_. “They sterilize us. It’s efficient. They can’t have anything get in the way of the mission.”  
“Oh God, Nat,”  
“I didn’t know if I wanted kids, but that option, that choice, was taken away from me. After that, it just became easier to do what they want. I was already the best, but now I was obedient too. They were right, it was necessary. It made me a better weapon.”  
“I’m so sorry, and here I’ve been complaining and wailing to you all evening,”  
“No.” I state firmly, “It should be your decision. You shouldn’t feel bad about being able to make that choice.” I jump up from the couch. “I need to go home. I will check in tomorrow.” My keys shake in my hands and I slam the door shut behind me. It takes three tries to get the keys into the knob and undo all six locks. Marble. You are made of marble, Natalia. You will not fail.  
That morning, I unlock the door to the Barton’s apartment. When I hadn’t been able to sleep last night, I spent hours scouring the internet for information about pregnancies. Inside, I find Agent Barton hugging Laura, tears streaming down her face. But she is smiling too.  
“Nat, can you believe it? A baby! I’m going to be a dad,” Barton picks up Laura and spins her through the air. “I swear this is the best moment of my life. Parents Laura! There is nothing more important. Nat, if you ever want to have kids, God, this feeling,” He beams, going into kiss Laura, who pulls away.  
“Clint,” Laura hisses.  
“What?” He asks, frowning. “We should be celebrating. I can pick up some sparkling cider, champagne,” I force out a smile.  
“I have to head to HQ to train. Hill and I will be getting dinner tonight.” I rush out of the apartment and towards my car. Just another part of me they took away. Another choice. I never had anything in the Red Room, but I had the hope that I would graduate. Have a family. Have a husband. Raise a child in a happy home. Have a house by the beach. I could be a teacher. I liked teaching Yelena. But that last shred of hope disintegrated on my eighteenth birthday.

Barton and I get called off on more missions. They begin to pick up with frequency as our efficiency is revealed. After five missions, we are yet to have a civilian casualty. We just finished debriefing Fury about our most recent assignment to Qatar and step out of his office. However, as soon as we step out, Coulson calls Barton into his office across the hall.  
“Should only be a minute, Agent Romanoff,” Coulson assures me. I wait patiently outside in the hall. Every time we have a moment, Barton tries to talk to me about that morning. I’d rather not wait, however, it seems as though I am expected to.  
Two agents, Rumlow and Rollins, approach. They are wearing tactical gear and Rumlow has a gash above his right eye. They too much have just returned from a mission. Rumlow leads a STRIKE team.  
“Well if isn’t the Black Widow,” Rollins drawls. They walk over to me, their smiles widening, dripping with a sickly-sweet venom. “You know, we just spent three weeks on a boat off the coast of Africa.”  
“Let me tell you, there were no women there,” Rumlow undresses me with his eyes. “You have a reputation, from those who survive anyway.” He steps closer. I eye the door. “Hey, look at me, I could use the comfort of a woman.”  
“Agent Barton says I am not to use those skills here,” I reply.  
“Well, I have higher clearance than Barton, and that makes me his boss. And I say, I could use some of the infamous Black Widow’s skills,” He unzips the top of my suit, “Come on Widow,” I don’t know what to do. If he has higher clearance than Barton, then his order is the one I should be following. My suit is unzipped almost to my stomach. Rumlow runs his finger up between my breasts, his hand ending up at my chin. He jerks my head up so I am forced to look him in the eyes. “I don’t have all day,”   
A fist flies out and makes contact with Rumlow’s jaw. Rollins is gone. I quickly zip up my suit. Barton quickly loses the upper hand. He had bruised his ribs during our time is Qatar. Rumlow is not hitting as you would when sparring, he is not holding back. He is going to kill Barton. I jump into the air and latch my thighs around Rumlow’s neck, flipping him onto the ground. One quick squeeze and he will be dead. Eliminate the threat. Clean. Efficient.  
“Agent Romanoff, stand down!” Fury’s voice roars. I jump off Rumlow, confused. He was a threat. He was trying to kill Agent Barton. “You three, sit down, now.” I immediately throw myself to the ground. Agent Rumlow starts to laugh. I don’t understand. I turn to look at Barton, who isn’t meeting my eyes, his face bright red, and then to Fury. “Romanoff, you can take a seat on the couch,” he says softly, gesturing to the waiting area. I stand up and sit on one of the two couches and Barton joins me. “Now does someone want to tell me why the fuck three of my best agents were trying to kill each other?” Immediately, Barton and Rumlow start yelling over each other. I stay silent, trying to understand Rumlow and Barton’s reactions. I feel a rush of embarrassment. Fury said sit, so I sat. He didn’t say the couch, he said now. I see the error now. It was supposed to be common sense. They think of me as a person; I should sit on a chair when asked to sit. The ever loudening debate draws my attention.  
“Sir! You don’t understand,” Barton tries to get louder.  
“Rumlow, go wait in my office.” Fury directs. The agent shoots us a smug look before walking into the next room. “Now, please calmly tell me what happened.” Fury sits down on the now empty couch across from me and Barton.  
“I walked out from my meeting with Coulson and saw Rumlow and Rollins undressing her,”  
“Is this true, Agent Romanoff?”  
“Yes,” I nod.  
“Why?”  
“They said they had been alone for three weeks and wanted to be pleasured. Agent Barton said I can’t do those types of favors, but he pulled rank.” By the look on Barton’s face I know I screwed up. “Does Barton have higher clearance than Rumlow?” I look between the two of them. Fury looks uncomfortable, something that didn’t seem possible. I turn to Barton, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have allowed it if I had known,”  
“Natasha, Rumlow has higher clearance than me,” Barton explains.  
“I don’t understand. His orders override yours.”  
“Please tell me he will be fired,” Barton looks over at Fury.  
“We can’t fire him,” Fury sighs.  
“Why not?” Barton exclaims. He looks ready to fight Fury as well.  
“Because it was me,” I explain to him. “I killed six of SHIELD’s agents, and then get a top ranking one fired within a few weeks of being here? The optics aren’t good,” Fury nods in approval and I feel myself relax slightly.  
“At least tell me he will be punished!” Agent Barton demands.  
“He will be. Agent Romanoff, Barton’s original order has my stamp of approval. And there is no one higher up than me.” He stands up, “Are you still okay with your solo mission next week?”  
“Yes sir,”  
“Good. I will see you tomorrow morning for the preliminary briefing.”  
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” I blurt out as soon as Fury’s office door shuts. Muffled shouts reverberate into the hall.  
“What are you talking about?” Barton asks.  
“I didn’t know he wanted us to sit on the couch, he just said sit. I saw your face when Rumlow laughed.”  
“Nat, I shouldn’t have,”  
“I am going to go home. You should go to medical.” I walk stiffly to my car, trying to maintain my dignity. I thought I was doing better, being better. I rev the engine of my car, relishing in the feelings of being in control of at least one thing.  
Three days later, as I head out of the gym, I hear Barton calling my name.  
“Nat?” He tries. I turn to look at him, “Would you like to go out for a drink?”  
“I can’t. I have a prior commitment.”  
“You have been avoiding me,” I feel a tickle of annoyance.  
“We just spent three days together in the dessert.”  
“Please?”  
“I am going grocery shopping,” I pull the list from my gym bag. It is actually _his_ shopping list.  
“What about ice cream? Will you do that? Please?” He looks desperate, I feel a twinge of guilt.  
“Fine.” I walk in silence beside him to his truck and climb into the passenger seat. I frown when we pass the city limits. “Where are we going?”  
“Out for ice cream,” he shoots me a lopsided smile.  
“I have errands to run,” I think of the case file in my bag, the one I have avoided telling Agent Barton about, the one I need to review one more time before Friday.  
“Nat,”  
“Yes?” I pull myself out of my thoughts.  
“I’m sorry I have to keep apologizing to you. I’m sorry I keep screwing up. I’m trying,” he changes lanes, “Laura told me about the,” he pauses, “ceremony,” The silence hangs in the air, “I said some insensitive things. Then with Rumlow, you might have saved my life and I,”  
“I’m trying too,” I put my feet on the dashboard.  
“I know, you’ve made huge strides.”  
“You mean I have stopped offering to have sex with you,” He pales, his eyes on the road.  
“Um, yeah. I am definitely happy about that,” He looks over to me nervously, but relaxes when he sees my smirk. “You are messing with me.”  
“You deserved it,” I reply, rolling down the window. We reach a little seaside town and pull up to an ice cream shack on the beach. I follow him to the counter and see at least thirty flavors listed. My mouth goes dry. Barton follows my gaze.  
“Hey, it’s okay. I can,”  
“One scoop of coffee ice cream,” I step forward, ignoring my shaking hands as I fumble for my wallet.  
“My treat. I did just drag you out here.” He orders his ice cream as well and we sit in the bed of the truck, our feet dangling.  
“Why did you bring me here?”  
“I wanted to apologize. And we took one car, so you can’t run away.” I raise an eyebrow, “It would be harder for you to run away,” he amends. I swirl my ice cream with the spoon. “I was embarrassed with Rumlow and Fury, I’m sorry. You didn’t know,”  
“I couldn’t help it,” I feel tears prickle my eyes, threatening to pool over. I force them back down before Barton can see, my unexpressive mask sliding back into place.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Conditioned response,”  
“To just obey without question? Nat,” His ice cream begins to drip. “Hold that thought,” I watch in amusement as he tries to salvage the ice cream, though it ends up creating more of a mess. He requests wet wipes from the teenager working the counter. When he returns, his white t-shirt is stained with chocolate.  
“So, Laura is going to have two kids,”  
“I like it when you joke and tease, Tash.” I nod, focusing on the water.  
“Noted.”  
“So, are we okay? Are you going to stop avoiding me?”  
“I wasn’t avoiding you because I was mad at you.” I take the final bite of my ice cream, trying to think of how he will react. It will not be good. “I have my first solo mission this weekend.”  
“I know, I’m really happy for you. It normally takes almost a year before someone is given solo missions. You’ve only been here two months. Why would you want to avoid me because of that?”   
“It is a honeypot.” I look over to him, waiting for a reaction.  
“SHIELD doesn’t do honeypots. You must have misread the case file.” I hop out of the car and grab my gym bag, tossing it to him. He takes out the manilla folder and reads through. “No. You can’t do this. It isn’t right.”  
“It is fine, Agent Barton.”  
“No, this is just like the whole thing with Rumlow,” He throws the case down, and I quickly gather up the papers.  
“Don’t have a tantrum.” I place the folder back in my bag. “This is nothing like having sex with other agents. That is a matter of authority and respect. This is doing my job.”  
“But how do you feel about it? Do you want to sleep with these guys?”  
“I don’t feel anyway about it. It is my job. It’s like firing a gun or throwing a knife.” I cross my legs. “I don’t understand your reaction, but I respect it.”  
“You don’t understand my reaction?” I shake my head.  
“But that’s okay. I don’t have to understand it.” He sits stiffly, “I knew you’d be upset, that’s why I was avoiding you.” His muscles are tense, and his hands are in fists. It is like the car incident. He didn’t hit me. He isn’t going to hit me. I feel my muscles clench nonetheless, ready for a blow. He sees my response and relaxes.  
“I’m not mad at you,” he says softly. “Let’s go home.” He hops out of the bed of the truck and I can’t help but notice how incredibly sad he seems.

* * *

“Agent Barton,” I flag him down in the hall. He turns to look at me, smiling. I am still wearing the dress from my mission, having just arrived back from Monaco. My fifth solo mission. The dress is torn and bloody, but I am thrilled with the success. Drugs were being brought into Europe on yachts, and within a few hours I was able to dismantle the whole operation. It had even boosted me to clearance level five. Now August, I have been with SHIELD for six months. My twenty-second birthday was celebrated without fanfare at Coulson’s house with our small circle. Though I did get into a competition with Barton and Hill, drinking them both under the table. Barton strolls over to me, he is wearing training gear, likely just coming from the shooting range.  
“Hey Nat, how did it go?” his question is hesitant, like he isn’t sure he should be asking.  
“Great, caught the guy, shut down the operation. I was in and out in two hours.” Barton goes to say something when we are interrupted.  
“Oh, its Fury’s bitch,” Rumlow sneers. “Sit, good girl,” I feel the tips of my ears burn with shame.  
“She is not his dog,” Barton snarls.  
“Sorry, you’re right. She’s _your_ stray. Tell me Barton, how good is the sex? Has she tried to kill you after? Was it worth it?” Barton winds up for a punch and I pull him back quickly. “Looks like I got the wrong idea of who’s on the leash,” Rumlow laughs and catches up with Agent Ward.  
“You should have let me go at him. Four months suspension was not enough. You can’t let him talk to you like that.”  
“Barton, Rumlow isn’t the only one who makes those comments.” His jaw twitches. “I killed six SHIELD agents, remember?”  
“But not by choice.”  
“I don’t think everyone is as open as you when it comes to that differentiation.”  
“But you’ve been here for months. You have proven yourself,” he argues.  
“I don’t even think I have. But it is very generous for you to think so.” I shoot him a smile. “Don’t you have an appointment to get to?” I remind him gently.  
“Oh God, the 28 Week ultrasound,”  
“Goodbye, Agent Barton,” He salutes me as he runs towards the doors.  
“I’ll get you to call me Clint someday,” he hollers back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Little changes in Nat, and the beginning of her less than healthy coping mechanisms. The next chapter will be action heavy, so that will be fun! Thank you all for reading!
> 
> **Also, sorry if some of the timeline stuff isn't lining up, I will fix it when i am feeling better


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Budapest!!! Enjoy!! Thank you all for following along! I'm still working on the opening chapter of Kindred, I'm so torn on how to start! But, it will be out by Friday!! Thank you all for the well wishes, I am feeling much better!! As always, comments are welcome and appreciated!

I shiver as I pull on my sweatshirt, thrilled with the prospect of a cool morning. Even September in D.C. had been particularly hot. I found myself missing Russian winters, something that never seemed possible. Last night, I had felt particularly bold and left my arm uncuffed. I awoke with no knives clutched in my hands. I stretch and meet Agent Barton on the front steps of the apartment building for our daily run.  
“How’s Laura?”  
“Good, the Braxton Hicks contractions have stopped,” Barton breaks into a jog and I keep up easily with him. Though I would never tell him, I usually do another six miles on my own after. “You know, you’ve developed quite the reputation at SHIELD,”  
“Good things, I hope.” I frown. Over the past few months, I have been working hard to come off as normal. It is exhausting.  
“Yes, you’re just the only agent to have no civilian casualties. That’s a huge accomplishment. Especially with the number of missions you go on.” I nod, focusing on the road. “You can be proud of yourself you know.”  
“Not until I have wiped out all the red in my ledger.”  
“You have saved dozens of lives, Nat.”  
“Agent Barton,” I pause, turning to him, “Do you know how many people I killed by the time you brought me in?”  
“No,”  
“One hundred and thirty-seven, that I know of.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“They got to pick and choose what memories I keep. They used to wipe my brain after a particularly bad mission, one I couldn’t come back from. I could have killed thousands of people and not know. How do you clean up that much red?”  
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, “But I think you’re on the right track.” After another ten minutes of silence, Barton clears his throat. “Did you get the email last night about Fury wanting us to come in today?”  
“Yes. I’m thinking he forgot your memo about a moratorium on missions until Baby Barton is born.” We begin to make our way back home.  
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Terrorists don’t take paternity leave.”

Much to Barton’s chagrin, it is my turn to drive. I put the top down on my Porsche and speed down the highway.  
“Why did we ever agree to carpool?” He yells over the whipping air.  
“We’re saving the planet, Agent Barton,” I reply, flashing a cheeky smile. We take the exit and slow down, he grips the door so hard his knuckles have turned white.  
“You drive like a crazy person,” He releases the door.  
“You should see how I drive when you’re not in the car.” I pull into the garage.  
“How do you have your license?”  
“Maria gave it to me,” The roof slides back onto the car and I turn it off, climbing out. “Don’t forget we have poker night with her on Thursday,” I remind him.  
“I always loose,” he huffs. “I am one of the best spies in the world, but up against you two,” He presses the button to the elevator and the door slide open.  
The glass walls of the elevator give us a view of agents milling about below. There is a team of trainees doing drills. The doors open once more, and we are met by Rumlow and his goons. As we step out, Rollins checks Barton with his shoulder. Thankfully, Agent Barton does not give him the time of day, instead following me out and to Fury’s office. He knocks on the door.  
“Come in,” I pull open the door and see Fury and Coulson in the middle of a discussion. “Take a seat,” he gestures to the chairs across from his desk. I sit across from him, my back straight, trying not to think of the incident a few months back, or those that followed. Slowly, I am catching on. Though I am yet to question orders, especially as flagrantly as Agent Barton does.  
“We have a mission for you two. Before you argue with me, Barton, it should not take more than twenty-four hours. Ideally, we will have you back before that.”  
“Sir,” Barton begins.  
“No. The STRIKE team is heading off on a mission right now, and I need this taken care of sooner rather than later.”  
“What is the mission, sir?”  
“Teacher’s pet,” he mumbles, but his eyes glint with affection. I shove him playfully and he sits up straighter.  
“We need you to head to Budapest to take down some gunrunners. They are getting bolder and we don’t want them becoming a large-scale operation.”  
“Is this a snatch and grab sir?” Barton asks.  
“No. Unfortunately, they are a trigger-happy bunch. Previous attempts left four of ours wounded and one dead. Take no prisoners.”  
“Understood.” He nods.  
“When do we leave?” I ask, trying to think if I have time to try out the new weapons that they are developing for me in R&D.  
“Tomorrow morning, six o’clock.” That would be a no, “Coulson will be coming with you, running point from behind the scenes. You are dismissed.”  
We spend the rest of the day training and going over possible strategies, with Coulson joining us after lunch. That evening, I head back to my apartment as soon as dinner is over to give Agent Barton and Laura time to themselves. For the second night in a row, I sleep without handcuffs.  
My alarm blares at five o’clock, dragging me out of my dreamless sleep. This is becoming an increasingly rare occurrence and I would have liked to enjoy it a little while longer. Bleary eyed, I step into the bathroom and take a cold shower, jolting me from my sleepy haze. I quickly chug a cup of coffee and change into my catsuit.  
There is a knock at my door, and I pull it open. Agent Barton stands before me with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a deep frown etched into his face.  
“You ready?” I nod and grab my own bag, locking the door behind me. It’s drizzling as we make our way to Barton’s truck, fitting for his mood.  
“She won’t go into labor while we are away,” I console. Laura could, but it is unlikely. “Only eight percent of births occur at thirty-six weeks,” I rattle off the statistic. He gives me a weak smile in thanks, and we climb into the truck.  
“If she does, I’m going to kill Fury.” The streets of D.C. are deserted, and rightfully so at this hour. Barton drives with much more constraint than I do, though he seems anxious to get to HQ. We pull up to the hangar bay that houses the quinjets. He reaches into the backseat and pulls out a Dunkin Donuts bag. “Bagel?”  
“It’s six o’clock in the morning. How long have you been up?” He doesn’t answer and hands me one. Coulson is waiting in the inside, and Barton tosses him the bag, holding the remaining breakfast food.  
“Clint, this will be a quick mission. Don’t worry, we’ll be back in time.” Barton doesn’t reply and instead head up the gangplank into the quinjet.  
“Good morning, Agent Romanoff,” Coulson sighs.  
“Good morning,” I parrot back, following him into the ship.  
The ride to Budapest only takes five hours. During that time, we go over the plan and study our marks.  
“Just a simple weapons ring, I think we can handle it.” Barton heads back to the pilot’s seat.  
“Barton, I think we should go over scouting positions one more time. And a backup plan for if things go south.”  
“We already have a back up plan,” he snaps.  
“Another one,” I offer.  
“We’re fine.” I look to Coulson who shakes his head. Sending Barton on this mission while he is compromised was an awful idea. Until Baby Boy Barton is born, his mind will be on nothing else. We land in an airfield just outside the city. Coulson begins to pull computer screens  
“Barton, if you want to stay here, I can go out into the field,” Coulson offers.  
“No. I am fine. Let’s get this show on the road.” He disembarks from the ship and I follow. Night has just started to fall, streetlights flickering on. We enter District VIII, jumping across rooftops to avoid the busy streets below.  
“There it is,” I nod to the crumbling building across the street. The windows are boarded up, and graffiti mars the stone exterior. We settle onto our stomachs with the sniper rifles, watching for any surprise movements. Through the few windows not covered with plywood, I can see guards doing rounds.  
“Eight minutes,” Barton counts. We have eight minutes to get into the building before a guard walks by our opening again. Eventually, the streets slip into silence as we near two o’clock in the morning. We move from our spot on the roof across the street and to the building next door to our target. “Coulson, are you ready?”  
“On your count, Barton.”  
“Three, two,” I bunch my muscles into a crouch, “One.” I spring forward through the broken window on the other side of the ally, my guns drawn.  
“All clear,” I stand up, resting on the balls of my feet. Barton tumbles in behind me, much less gracefully.  
“How did you do that?”  
“Ballet, Agent Barton.” He waves us forward and I look around the space in front of us. Walls are hollowed out, only supporting beams remaining. There are tables covered with Euro, and Barton pries the lid off a wooden crate. After fishing through some packing peanuts, he hoists out a machine gun.  
“I think we’ve got our guys.” Voices echo from the staircase. “Now it’s a party,” Barton pulls his bow from his back, loading an arrow. I cock my gun. Three guards appear, different than the two we had seen making rounds. We both fire quickly, killing two of them. But the third sounds the alarm before my bullet pierces his skull. “Fuck.”  
“Yeah, no shit.” I run towards the stairs, hoping to bottleneck them, firing quickly. As I reach for another magazine, I feel a bullet graze my shoulder.  
“Nat, we’ve got a problem.”  
“Already dealing with one, Barton.”  
“There are two staircases,” I kill another goon quickly, unable to take my eyes off the stairs as a seemingly endless stream of men come at me. They pay no mind to their injured comrades. Four attack me at once on the landing. The air is quickly filling with the stench of death. I run out of bullets and grip my knives, dancing through the air. The slash quickly and efficiently, hitting arteries every time. When I finally have a chance to look over to Barton, I see that he too has amassed a significant body count.  
“Well, this will be a night to remember,” I huff, throw my last knife at a rapidly approaching man. The weapons embeds itself into his eye and he drops to the ground, screaming in pain. I am out of weapons and covered in blood, but the firing has slowed, bullets no longer flying through the air. Barton takes down the last of the men, an arrow sending the man into convulsions as electricity pulses through his body. He lowers his bow, wincing at the small knife protruding from his side.  
Time seems to slow. I watch as a fatally wounded target pulls himself up from behind what remains of a wall. Blood gurgles from an arrow sticking out of his neck. Anyone with that type of wound should be dead. He raises his gun with surprising steadiness, trained on Agent Barton. I won’t have time to reach the man before he fires. I run towards Barton, diving in front of him just as the gun goes off. I sink to the floor, pain clouding my thoughts. Blood begins to spread through my abdomen, my suit becoming slick. I am vaguely aware of my partner firing his bow, my killer dropping dead. I try to pull myself off the ground, but fall back, my head bouncing on the concrete floor. A groan escapes before I can stop it. There is a hand pressed to my stomach.  
“Nat, oh my God,” he pushes his hand down harder, “Coulson, we need immediate med evac,” I try to focus on his face, stay awake, even though it will be fruitless. “Why did you do that?”  
“I don’t want you dead,” I murmur, blinking slowly.  
“Is that your way of saying you like me?” I try to smile but wince in pain as ties something around my stomach. “We are going to get you out of here, alright? But you have to stay awake, talk to me, Tasha.” He lifts me off the ground and I feel my consciousness waver.  
“Clint, I don’t think that is going to happen.”  
“Hey, you called me by my name,” I can hear the fear in his voice. The cool air from the street hits me, we are out of the building. My mouth tastes like copper.  
“We are partners, right?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.  
“Yeah, partners. Come on, you’re my best friend. You can’t die on me.”  
“You need better friends,” I cough, blood sputtering between my lips. “I was good, right?” I plead.  
“You’re good, Nat. So good.” I feel his tears hit my face. I open my mouth to tease him for being soft, only to be met by more coughs, my body trying to expel the misplaced blood. The world is getting blurry. “You have to stay with me. Please, Coulson is just a few minutes out, you have to stay awake. You don’t get to die on me,”

I blink open my eyes, pain coursing through my body. I should be dead. That gunshot wound should have killed me. Why am I not dead? I try to sit up and an animalistic moan escapes me, and I collapse back into the bed.  
“Nat?” I turn my head and see Agent Barton, Clint, sitting in the armchair next to me.  
“Hey partner,” I give him a weak smile.  
“You aren’t supposed to be awake yet.”  
“I’m not supposed to be alive,” I retort.  
“It was touch and go,” he admits, looking absolutely exhausted.  
“What happened?”  
“The bullet went through your liver and clipped your stomach, then lodged itself in your spleen.”  
“Yeah, I definitely should not be alive,” I close my eyes. “How long have I been out?”  
“Just over a week. We moved you back to the states a few days ago.”  
“Laura?”  
“Had the baby yesterday. Cooper Phillip Barton.”  
“Coulson must be honored,” I try to keep my eyes open.  
“You saved my life. Thank you.”  
“I didn’t want you to die,”  
“You should rest,” he pulls the blankets up to my chest. I roll my eyes and cast him an amused smirk. “You’re a good person, Nat. I need you to know that.” Sleep wins before I can argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's Budapest!! Hope you enjoyed :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warning for unintentional self harm**** (And some disturbing thoughts that could be triggering)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you are staying safe and healthy! And had a good weekend in quarantine! Unfortunately, I wanted to write more this weekend, but have been insanely busy with work and school. If you didn't see it, part 4 of this series, Kindred, started on Friday! Please check it out! I am loving Volition, but I miss writing from our Little Witch's POV!! Lol  
> Sorry in advance for the dark-ish chapter!!  
> Thank you all for following along, please enjoy!!  
> (And thank you for your always awesome comments, I live for feedback!!)

There is a knock at the door to my apartment. I slowly, painfully, pull myself off the couch. Maria drove me home yesterday, after four days in recovery. I open the door and see Clint and Laura, the latter of whom is holding a swaddled bundle.  
“Hey, how are you feeling?”  
“Fine,” I reply tersely, “I should be ready for the field in a few days.” I step aside to let them in. Clint sets a bag of groceries on the counter and begins putting them away. Laura smiles at me. “Is that Cooper?” I ask, noticing how much softer my voice is.  
“Do you want to hold him?” Laura asks, offering me the baby.  
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I look down at my hands, hands that do nothing but kill and maim.  
“You won’t, I trust you,” Laura holds him out.  
“Okay,” I whisper.  
“Alright Coop, you want to meet Auntie Nat?” My eyes widen at the nickname as he rests in my arms. I hold him like the websites said, supporting his head. My thoughts fill with nerves as I wonder if I am holding him too tight or too loose. “Look at you, you’re a natural,” Cooper stares at me with his big blue eyes. I know its gas, but a part of me thinks he might be smiling too. This baby, looking at me. He doesn’t see an assassin or a spy, just a person. I am going to be better. I will be better. If it means that he never stops looking at me this way. That to him, I will always be human. I will not just follow the new rules but learn them. I am going to protect him from the evils of this world. I have never held anything so small and delicate, so fragile. I am going to protect him forever.

Three weeks later, Clint and I are called into Fury’s office. Coulson is already waiting, and neither of them look particularly happy.  
“It was a sparring match, Agent Warren will be fine,” Clint begins.  
“What happened to Agent Warren?” Coulson asks, confusion written clearly across his face.  
“Nothing,” Clint says quickly, looking over at me. I try not to roll my eyes. Warren’s wrenched shoulder will be fine, we wouldn’t be in trouble for that. Though I do find myself warmed by his attempt to help me. Rather than Fury sitting behind his desk with Coulson standing behind, while Clint and I sit in the stiff chairs across from them, we are led over to the four leather armchairs by the window. Clint sits down languidly, clearly unperturbed by the change in pattern. I sit on the edge of the armchair. This is an attempt to make us feel as though we are on equal footing, a fallacy. Like what is about to happen is a conversation, not an order. My partner notices my stress and looks from our bosses and then back to me. His relaxed stance disappears.  
“Well that didn’t take long,” Coulson sighs.  
“You have us figured out, Agent Romanoff?” Fury asks.  
“Yes sir.” I nod, crossing my arms.  
“What is going on?” Clint asks, his frown deepening.  
“We have a mission for you two,”  
“Okay,” he nods. We had a mission last week, this itself is nothing new. Coulson hands us each a file.  
“Three-month undercover mission in Greece,” I see Clint’s Adams apple bob up and down. I think of baby Cooper at home, just a few weeks old. An unexpected rage begins to build.  
“You cannot be serious,” I snap. “He just had a baby and you want to send him away for three months? Are you serious _Nick_? Do you know what they can do to a child’s development and bonding this young?" I think of baby Cooper, at home. I made a promise. They can't do this. It is wrong. "This is an extreme disregard for not only a child, but for the mission as well. To think that any respectable father would be able to focus during a mission this long while his fiancé and newborn are alone is ridiculous. I thought you had better judgement.” I cross my arms, leaning back into the chair with a huff.  
“Natasha,” Clint breathes. I look over at him and then back to Fury and Coulson. Oh my God. Oh my God. What did I just do? I think I am going to be sick. They should kill me. Or at least punish me. Send me for a wipe, or more testing. _No, not the Red Room, not in the Red Room_. But such insolence. Oh my God. I throw myself off the chair and at Fury’s feet.  
“Sir, I’m so sorry. It is not my place to question your orders. I have no place.” I continue to grovel at his feet, waiting for a kick or blow to the head that I deserve. Stupid Natasha. They have treated me so well, so kind, and then I go and do this. I am worthless, stupid. How could I question his orders? It is not my job. My job is to obey. I am a weapon. Weapons can't choose when they are fired. Weapons have no opinions.   
“Agent Romanoff, look at me.” I snap my eyes up from the ground so fast that my neck cracks. “Please return to your seat,”  
I scramble up from the ground, throwing myself back into the chair. Clint begins to administer first aid on my forearms that I had scratched raw. The nails that I had gotten done with Maria yesterday are broken, caked with skin and blood. I stare at the white box with the red cross, trying to prepare myself for punishment. Clint is saying something, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ear.  
“Agent Romanoff, you can stop apologizing,” Coulson says quietly. I close my mouth; I hadn’t even realized I was still talking.  
“Thank you for your input,” Fury states firmly, looking at me. I shake my head. I questioned his orders. Agent Barton and I are to go to Greece on a three-month mission. “You offered a perspective that we weren’t thinking of, we were too focused on the mission itself.” I nod mutely. “Though perhaps, next time you can use a little more tact,”  
“Yes, Directory Fury, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”  
“You are not in trouble, Natasha. We are happy that you shared your opinion with us,” Coulson explains. The nausea in my stomach swirls despite their platitudes.  
“You have given us a lot to think about. We will let you know our decision this afternoon. You are dismissed.”  
I run out of the office, sprinting down the hallway until I reach the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet, throwing up my breakfast. The orange juice burns my throat. I deserve to be punished. If not physically, then at least isolation. I flush the toilet, leaning back against the metal stall. Questioning orders. That is not my place. I have no place in the world. I am whatever they need me to be.  
“Nat?” I look up and see Agent Barton. “Hey, it’s okay,” He sits down next to me. “Thank you,” I look up at him, knitting my eyebrows together. “For sticking up for me, advocating for me. It means a lot. I know it wasn’t easy for you, but Fury and Coulson aren’t mad.” I nod mutely, staring at my bloody hands. “Nat look at me,” I do as he asks, seeing a gentle smile, “Thank you. Really.”  
“You’re welcome, Agent Barton,” I murmur. His smile disappears. Shit. What did I do?  
“Clint, remember? We’re not in the field.” He rubs his hands on his sweatpants, “Come on, let’s get off this filthy floor, and wash the blood off your hands.” I head stand up unsteadily, the nausea still there, but nothing left to expel.  
“Agent Bart- Clint,” I amend, “This is the ladies’ room,” A blush rises to his cheeks.  
“Right, I’ll be out in the hall,” He rushes out of the room, the door swinging behind him. I wash my hands, murky blood-laden water swirling in the porcelain bowl. I dip my mouth to the tap, swishing water to get rid of the acidic taste that sits on my tongue, the grime coating my teeth.  
Clint is waiting in the hallway as promised, his face lighting up when he sees me. He goes to sling an arm around me, and I pull away. His face falls at my rejection and I feel a twinge of guilt. I check him lightly with my hip and he smiles at me.  
“Let’s grab some lunch,”  
We end up at the sub shop near headquarters, just over the bridge the connects the island to the city. The tram is crowded with other agents opting to take it to the nearest restaurants for lunch rather than take out their cars and deal with D.C. traffic. Clint orders our usual subs and we go to settle down at a table in the corner.  
“How are you doing?”  
“Fine.” I bite into the sandwich, completely uninterested in the food. Despite Clint’s best efforts, I am yet to see food as more of an inconvenient but necessary part of life.  
“Nat, you ripped your own arms to shreds.” I look down at the bandages.  
“I didn’t mean to,” I reply quietly, embarrassed. So little control. I think if myself practically kissing Fury’s feet. It is humiliating. It isn’t right, I know it isn’t right. That isn’t how people are supposed to react, but I’m not a person. No matter how hard I want to be.  
“Hey, it’s okay. I just wanted to check in on you. See where your head is at.”  
“I am good, really.” I lie easily, taking a sip of my water.  
We finish our lunch and head back to the Triskelion. I set up a target and begin throwing knives. After five or six rounds, I begin to feel the muscles in my back loosen. My thoughts become clearer. I am Natasha Romanoff. _Thud_. Agent of SHIELD. _Thud_. Twenty-two years old. _Thud_. Auntie Nat. _Thud._ A ghost of a smile makes its way to my lips with the last thought. I collect the four knives and start again. With each throw, I become surer of myself. When my tenth-round finishes, I wipe a bead of sweat off my face as it drips from my hairline. As I gather the knives, I realize with a start that I have gathered an audience on the viewing platform over the training room. That would explain why there is no one else in here. The door to the gym opens and Clint waves me over.  
“Fury wants to see us.” I put away the knives and follow Clint down the hall. It is lined with doors leading to other gymnasiums and training centers. “Why don’t you ever train in the main room? It is a good way to meet other agents.”  
“Exactly.” I frown, pulling on a sweatshirt to cover my arms. “I don’t want to meet other agents.”  
“You should have other friends besides me and Maria,”  
“You don’t.” I point out. He growls at my logic. “Come on, Hawkeye,” I tease, “Let’s see what they have decided to do with us.” We step into Fury’s office for a second time today, though I hope this meeting will have a better outcome than the last.  
“The backup agent for this mission was Warren. But he has a torn rotator cuff. He is going to be benched for at least four months.”  
“Sorry sir,” Clint and I apologize.  
“Unfortunately, that means that Agent Barton will have to go on the mission.”  
“I can go alone.” I state firmly.  
“Nat,” Clint whispers.  
“Agent Romanoff, three months undercover is a long time to be alone. We will be lucky to get weekly check ins.”  
“Do you doubt my abilities, sir?” I ask.  
“I worry for your wellbeing,” Fury admits.  
“I will be fine.” I sit up straighter, “When do I leave?”

* * *

  
I shield my eyes as I look up at the approaching quinjet. I shiver in my dress as the wind cuts through me. The gang plank drops and before I can give my eyes a moment to adjust, a pair of arms envelop me. I push away quickly, uncomfortable by the sudden contact.  
“Sorry, it’s just that it’s good to see you. I missed you,” Clint grins, seeming not to be miffed by my rejection.  
“I missed you too,” I reply stiffly. However, he seems to know I am sincere. I reject his offers to carry my bag and board the quinjet.  
“You don’t have any visible injuries,” he comments.  
“I am getting better at my job.”  
“Or you waited to call us until you healed.”  
“I guess you’ll never know,” I tease, heading into the bathroom. Clint powers up the quinjet and I emerge from the bathroom in SHIELD standard issue sweats. It is my first time wearing something other than a skintight dress in months, and I am beyond relieved. Though I shouldn’t be. It is my job, I wear what is needed. Even in my head, I can hear Clint scolding me, telling me I am allowed to, and should, have an opinion on the clothes I wear. The copilot’s seat leather squishes as I sit down, and I prop my feet up on the dash. There are scars on my soles from running barefoot through the streets of Athens last month. Though Clint eyes them warily, he says nothing.  
“It was surprisingly hard to get Fury to agree for me to be your extractor. Had to trade with Hill for a mission. She is not happy. On surveillance.”  
“Hill hates surveillance,”  
“I also had to promise to do her paperwork for a week,” he winces.  
“All to be the first to see me?”  
“It was a long three months without my best friend,” he admits.  
“Technically, I finished a week early,”  
“Fine it was a long two months and three weeks,”  
“How’s Laura? And Cooper?”  
“They’re great! Cooper is so awesome. Nat, I can’t wait for you to see him. His laugh, oh my God it is the best sound in the world. I could listen to it forever. He laughs all the time. Sleeps through the night.”  
“I can’t wait to see them,” I stifle a yawn.  
“Get some kip, we have a few hours left. I’ll wake you when we get close,” I start to protest but realize this is the first time in weeks that I can fall asleep without a gun in my hand. The comforting thought is cut out by shame, but I quickly force it down. I can allow myself this.  
It is snowing in Washington when the quinjet lands. Clint begins to turn off the controls. For the past hour, he has cast fervent glances my way.  
“Are you okay?” I ask finally, rising from my seat.  
“You were undercover for three months. Agents tend to have a hard time coming down from that,” he says this cautiously, as if I am a bomb he is trying to dismantle.  
“I have been designed to take on other personas at a moment’s notice, I’m fine. It is like flicking a switch.” He looks at me doubtfully but relents.  
“Alright, well, if you’re good, then we just need Fine to check you out and you can head to Fury for debriefing.  
I pass my medical inspection with flying colors and wait in the elevator with Clint, who is showing me pictures of Cooper. His big blue eyes stare out of the screen, a smile on his face.  
“He looks just like you,”  
“Thank you! Everyone else says he looks like Laura,”  
“I can see that, but the eyes, the eyes are all you,” The doors open, and Clint settles onto one of the couches outside of Fury’s office. “You don’t have to wait for me.”  
“Nah, we can get lunch after. You can tell me all about the mission over tacos.” I smile at him and knock on the door to Fury’s office.  
“Come on in, Agent Romanoff.”

True to his word, Clint is on his third taco as I tell him about my time in Greece. There was one day where I was able to wander the markets, familiarize myself with the area. The rest of the time I worked myself through the organization, getting to know every man in charge. I was able to remove the head of the snake, dismantling the human trafficking ring. The cafeteria begins to fill up as it gets closer to noon. I tell him the passphrase they used to ensure that someone could be trusted, to tell if they were part of the inner circle. Clint just laughs.  
“It’s all Greek to me,” I roll my eyes at his joke, smiling as I bite into my taco. His eyes move behind me and he waves. I turn and see Hill, Sitwell, and another agent whom I don’t recognize.  
“Romanoff, welcome back.” Maria nods, sitting down next to me. “How was it?”  
“It was good. A nice challenge,” I reply, popping a tortilla chip in my mouth.  
“This is Sharon Carter, she just joined last month,” Clint explains.  
“Nice to meet you,” she offers. I smile back tightly. Eventually, our table fills up with other agents I vaguely know. Agent Warren joins as well, harboring no ill will about his shoulder. I find myself mirroring Maria for most of lunch, unsure who I am supposed to be in this situation. Do they want Black Widow? Agent Romanoff? Natasha? Someone entirely new? Who even is Natasha? She is barely a personality, someone just beginning to be shaped into someone new. What do they want me to say? Who do they want me to be?  
“Nat, what do you think?” I pull my attention back to the present. Clint, and everyone else at the table is staring at me expectantly. My heart is thumping in my chest. However, I am saved by the pinging of my cell phone, along with Clint and Maria’s. “Well, party’s over folks. See you all later,”  
We dump our trays and I trail behind Clint and Maria, my thoughts swirling. My fingers itch to do something productive. Whether it be throwing knives, firing a gun, hell even filling out paperwork.  
“You okay?” Clint whispers outside Fury’s office as Maria walks in.  
“Yes, just going over some points from the mission for when I type up my report. It is going to be a long one.”  
“Yeah, of course. I get it,” he doesn’t seem convinced.  
“Clint, I’m good. Let’s see what Fury wants.” I step in front of him, feeling better knowing that at least in this room, I know what I will be getting, what is expected of me. We sit down at the conference table in the expansive office. Hill has her tablet, swiping through things quickly. She seems just as clueless as us as to why we are here. Coulson sits down next to her. The four of us are suddenly on equal footing.  
“Congrats, Romanoff and Barton. As of this moment, you both have level seven clearance.” Clint looks over to Coulson, whose lips are drawn in a thin line. “Hill, darken the room.” Same as on my first day here, the room becomes silent as computers start running. Fury stands at the head of the table, five manilla folders in his hands.  
“Sir, Romanoff just got back from three months under cover. I think she could use more than eight hours before her next mission,” I kick Clint under the table, irritated. He shoots me a glare.  
“I agree with you, Barton. Unfortunately, this can’t wait. We have our window.”  
“Window for what, sir?” Maria asks. Fury sighs and slides us each a folder.  
“We’re taking down the Red Room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to take down the Red Room!! Get ready y'all!! It is going to be a bumpy ride! And some BAMF Nat!!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!! Stay safe and healthy!! Next chapter will be out by the end of the week!! -Carly


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter!! I wanted to make sure I got it right. Still not sure if I did, but i could spend weeks agonizing over it and never get on to everything else lol (its the perfectionist in me). One of my longest chapters too!  
> Hope you are all staying safe and healthy! Please enjoy!!

“Nat, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Clint holds the punching bag steady as I swing.  
“You need me there. I am the only one who knows how the Red Room operates.” I bounce of the balls of my feet. “Fury said we leave in seventy-two hours. It took me decades to figure out how it works. Even now, I’m still in the dark.” I add bitterly, hitting the bag a little too hard. Clint stumbles, but maintains his hold. I stop, wiping the sweat from my forehead. “This could be my only opportunity to undo the things they have done to me. To get my memories back, maybe even find my parents.”  
“I just want to make sure you’re okay. They did a lot to you, facing them could be,”  
“Go spend time with your family, Clint.”  
“I’m sure Cooper would love to see Auntie Nat,” I give him a tight smile.  
“Give Coop and Laura my best,”  
“Natasha,” he says seriously.  
“Clinton,” I reply, imitating his voice, mocking his seriousness. It gets him to laugh.  
“Fine, I’ll see you Thursday then.”  
“We don’t leave until Friday.”  
“I know, but Thursday you’re coming over to dinner.”  
“Am I?” I cross my arms.  
“Yep. Laura is making pot roast.” He shoulders his gym bag and salutes me, jogging out of the training room.  
I spend all day Wednesday going over reports with Fury, confirming or refuting information. By the time we are done, my eyes hurt from staring at tiny text for so many hours.  
“Agent Romanoff,” I look up from one of the packets, surprised by the tenderness in his voice, “I want you to know that this mission is optional for you. Sitting out is okay. No one would think less of you.”  
“With all due respect sir, I would think less of myself if I were to stay on base.”  
“Your handlers, they brainwashed you, conditioned you.”  
“Yes sir.”  
“To the point where you begged me to punish you.”  
“Yes sir,” I feel the tips of my ears get hot.  
“Do you think you will be able to shoot them? Kill them?”  
“I have never hated anyone more in my life.” He nods, satisfied. Though I never really answered the question.  
The Red Room headquarters moved to Russia in the 1950s, at the height of the Red Scare. Until my briefing with Fury, I hadn’t been aware there was another location before this one. From the pictures, I, rather regretfully, think that my cage was prettier.  
I knock on the door to the Barton’s apartment. Laura swings it open, a bright smile on her face. I tense as she goes in for a hug, but she stops herself, instead placing a handle warmly on my arm.  
“We missed you, Nat.” I present a giftbag to her and she yells over her shoulder.  
“Clint, Nat’s here and she brought wine!” She turns back to me, “Come on in. You’re way too skinny, did they not feed you on this mission?”  
In the kitchen, she pushes a platter of cheese and crackers my way. The whole apartment smells like spices. Clint walks into the kitchen with a freshly bathed Cooper.  
“He’s so big,” I take him in my arms. He squirms and giggles, smiling at me.  
“And you were nervous he wouldn’t remember you,” Clint brags.  
“I never said that,” I roll my eyes.  
“You were thinking it,” Clint steals a carrot from the bunch that Laura is chopping. I was thinking it, but I am not about to admit that to him.  
Laura pours us each a glass of wine, while Clint takes a beer. When dinner is almost ready, Clint takes back baby Cooper.  
“Say goodnight to Auntie Nat, buddy,” Cooper yawns, his little mouth twisting. It is adorable. He heads into the nursery and Laura sighs.  
“He hates leaving him for missions. This one is supposed to be short, right?”  
“Yes, two days at most,” I nurse my glass, unable to make eye contact.  
“Clint’s been nervous, he won’t tell me what its about.”  
“Because you shouldn’t worry about it,” Clint comes back into the kitchen. “Cooper sleeps through the night now, it is the biggest blessing I could ask for.”  
During dinner, we talk about everything except the impending mission, though it hangs like a heavy cloud. Laura tells me how she quit her job at the hospital, but that she wants to go back in a few years, once Cooper is old enough for preschool. Clint tells me he already bought the kid his first baseball glove. I tell them about a friendly goat I met on my undercover stint in Greece, who followed me around this farm I was at for a few days.  
I help with the dishes and head back to my apartment. Despite the comfortable familiarity of my bed, I am unable to sleep. I spend the night with a new and unknown companion: nerves.

* * *

  
I sit next to Clint on the quinjet as we go over our plans. We have been split into teams of two, while Fury runs point from the jet. It is my first time seeing Coulson out of a suit and in tactical gear, it seems almost wrong. He reaches to adjust his tie, only to realize it isn’t there. I quirk my lips at the small movement, but say nothing, redirecting my attention to the floorplans I helped draft.  
“You have a contact for when we arrive?” Fury confirms one more time. I nod. I left a message last night; I just hope she is still alive.  
“And she’ll help us? She’s still with the Red Room,”  
“Only because I left her there,” I bite back to Maria.  
“Nat,” Clint says gently.  
“I’m fine.”  
When the quinjet touches down outside of Moscow, Clint and I head into the city to meet her.  
“You will wait in the hall until I come to get you,” I tell him. “She would not hesitate in killing you.”  
“And you trained her?”  
“Yes, she is my sister. Family.” The words feel foreign in my mouth. Clint’s eyes soften. I unlock the door to the apartment. Still under construction, sheets of plastic billow from a draft. It is cold enough that I can see my breath. I sense her before I can see or hear her.  
Instantly, we are fighting. She throws me through a door and in turn, I swipe her legs out from under her, pinning her to the ground.  
“I have a friend here. Don’t kill him. I will be very pissed if you do.” She nods begrudgingly and I let her off the ground. I head into the hall and bring him in.  
“Clint, meet Yelena. Yelena, this is Clint.” Yelena inspects him carefully but makes no move to harm him.  
“So, this is your sister?”  
“That’s a very sentimental way of describing me, Natalia,” Yelena replies in thickly accented English. Western languages were never her specialty, being trained mostly in Eastern.  
“I go by Natasha now,” With that, Yelena laughs.  
“Madame B would be horrified.”  
“Ivan?”  
“Missing, presumed dead. He is the one who sent you on your mission to America after all. Look what happened. Madame’s favorite toy belongs to someone else now.”  
“I belong to no one,” My sister cocks her head.  
“America changed you.” However, her tone isn’t judgmental, almost envious.  
“I’m sorry for leaving you,”  
“You took your chance. I cannot blame you for it,” she replies easily. “Though I am curious as to why you are back here and why you wished to meet with me.” She sits down at the sole furniture in the apartment- a set of table and chairs. She feigns being at ease. Had I not known her as well as I do, I would think she is relaxed. “Sit, tell me what you want.”  
Clint and I tell her our plan to take down the Red Room. Her skepticism morphs into mild interest, which is as close to enthusiasm as Yelena has ever come.  
“I will help you.” She states, crossing her arms. “Technically, I am on a recon mission until late tonight. After my debriefing, before I head to bed, I will let you in.”  
“It will be that easy?”  
“For you,” Yelena scoffs.  
“That is taking a big risk for you,” I tell her.  
“Well, if you succeed, I won’t be punished for not going directly to my room.”  
“Your room?” Yelena’s cold gaze stops me from pressing further.   
“East entrance between midnight and one.” She rises from her seat. “Now, I must go complete my recon so I at least have something to give them upon my arrival. It is good to see you are alive, Natalia.” I am surprised by the sentiment; it warms my heart. She climbs out the window, jumping down the fire escape.  
“She is something,”  
“I know,” I smile at him. “Come on, let’s brief the others.”

The evening, we drive an hour outside of Moscow to the Red Room. The giant school looms before us, sitting on a hill with a grand tree lined road leading up to it. It is covered in a thick blanket of snow. However, we veer off the path before we can get even remotely close to the property, as walking up and knocking on the door would undoubtedly get us shot. Clint made a joke about us selling Girl Scout Cookies, which then, much to my irritation, had to be explained to me. Thin mints are a facet of American culture that the Red Room missed in its lessons.  
“You know, history has proven that invading Russia in the winter is never a good idea.” Clint mutters are we trudge through the woods.  
“Agent Barton, as much as I appreciate the commentary, we are all cold and I would greatly appreciate it if you shut the fuck up,” Maria hisses. I snort and Clint shoots me a glare.  
“Don’t side with her,” he whines.  
“It isn’t even that cold,”  
“It’s fourteen degrees,”  
“Balmy,” I reply. His distracting quips are actually welcome, as I try not to think about what will happen in the coming hours. I feel sick to my stomach.  
We reach the fence. It is more for decoration than anything. No one inside is foolish enough to try and escape. And up until now, no one has been stupid enough to invade. It is their own hubris that will be their downfall. Phil cuts away at the metal, not making a sound. We step through the hole and wait.  
I stretch to keep my blood flowing. At twelve thirty-six, the door opens. The crack of light shines down to us and we run forward, careful to avoid the security cameras that are mounted throughout the grounds. I see that the door has been propped open with a ballet slipper and I try not to laugh at Yelena’s morbid humor. Everyone else just stares at the shoe in confusion. This side entrance is rarely used. I can count on one hand the number of times I have passed this threshold, and thus under patrolled. The guards here are ruthless, and will shoot first, ask questions later. Our goal is to get the files and shut down operations by whatever means necessary. Apparently, according to Clint, that is an order rarely issued. I have a feeling Yelena is currently on the third floor, and it makes my stomach twist. We break off from Coulson and Maria, who head up a back staircase towards the second floor where there are offices. Clint and I slink through the halls, passing classrooms. That is when alarms start to blare. I blame Yelena. Gunshots begin to echo through the building. A guard spots us and begins to shout and shoot. I fire first, my bullet going through his eye.  
“We are going to have company.” I sigh, looking over to Clint. He nods, cocking his gun. I know he misses his bow, but it would not be conducive to this mission. For a while, we fight back to back. We duck and dive in unison, creating a dance that even Ivan would be proud of. Our coms crackle.  
“Hill’s been hit, I have to get her out of here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,”  
“Copy that,” Clint grunts, shoving in a new magazine. The guards are closing in. There are dozens of them, coming towards us in a never-ending flow. Some of them I recognize, the older ones. They aren’t so trigger happy, the relish in the intimacy of a kill done by hand. The younger ones haven’t yet discovered that pleasure, feeling a life melt away in your hands. I feel a bullet graze my arm and see Clint take a blow to the face. They aren’t trying to kill us. With so many highly trained soldiers, we should definitely be dead by now. Incapacitate, not kill. They have strict orders.  
“Barton,” I am about to inform him, when I feel metal make contact with my skull.

I wake up on the floor and wince at the pounding in my head. I touch my arm and find the wound has stopped bleeding.  
“Barton?” I sit up and realize I am not in a cell or some kind of captivity, but a classroom. I look around and see Clint tied to the instructor’s chair. Madame B stands beside him, tapping her foot impatiently. I stare at her, unable to bring my eyes away. It has been so long since I last saw her. She is holding Clint. I need to get Clint free. But I find myself unable to move to untie him. I will my feet to move, to attack her and free my best friend.  
“Natalia, welcome back.” Her voice snaps me out of my daze.  
“That’s not my name,” I grit out.  
“Oh, you have been gone for too long, Little Spider.” She steps away from Clint, walking towards me. I feel the weight of my gun on my hip. They didn’t disarm me. She goes to grab my chin and I pull away. She slaps my cheek lightly, a warning. I duck my head at her rebuke. “Do you notice that she hasn’t shot me, Agent Barton? I am not armed; I am holding you against your will. She makes no move to free you. She is a weapon, a tool. It was foolish of you to treat her as anything more. Place those false ideas in her head.” Her accented English flows, filling the room. “You know, Natalia, you always were my favorite.”  
“Vy ochen' dobry,” I beam at her, basking in the warmth of her unexpected praise.  
“Manners, Natalia. English, we have an American guest.” Clint blanches. _Clint_. I don’t need praise from her. I don’t want it. I raise my gun shakily.  
“You will not shoot me, Natalia.” I fire my gun.  
The bullet misses, lodging itself in the wall, two feet above her head. She clucks her tongue, walking forward. Her skirt swishes and I wait to be scolded like a schoolgirl. No. Not scolded. I am not hers.  
“Sloppy, Natalia.”  
“Stop saying that! It’s not my name!” I shake my head. Natasha. I am Natasha Romanoff. Agent of SHIELD. Twenty-two years old. Auntie Nat. Clint Barton’s best friend.  
“My, my. You are giving me orders?” I am Natasha Romanoff. Agent of SHIELD. Auntie Nat. Clint Barton’s best friend. Natasha Romanoff.  
“I have no loyalty to you. I am Natasha Romanoff, Agent of SHIELD.” I am Auntie Nat. Clint Barton’s best friend.  
“I never asked you for loyalty, Natalia. Your loyalty was never required. Only your compliance.” My tongue feels thick in my mouth. She is having fun; this is a game to her. I look to Clint. A hand slaps me across the face. “Never show fear, it makes you weak. He makes you weak. I made you better than this, Natalia. You were my favorite weapon. I trained you. I raised you. And you disobeyed orders.” I flinch, biting my tongue.  
“Apologize to me, now.” I shake my head.  
“I am Natasha Romanoff, Agent of SHIELD.”  
“Stop that,” She snaps. “You are Natalia Romanova, Black Widow and agent of the Red Room.”  
“No,” My thoughts feel fuzzy, and I think a drug is kicking in. “No,” I hit my head, trying to stop it.  
“Finally. Your resistance to treatments is, as always, impressive.” I know this drug. It is for when we are in the field and have a rough mission, a mission that could mess with compliance. They used it on me when I killed Drakov’s daughter, and in Sao Palo. I shove my hand down my throat, sending up my dinner of borscht. “Silly girl, did you think we would have you swallow it? We injected it,”  
“Natasha,” Clint’s voice calls out.  
I shake my head. I feel my thoughts begin to slow, like a hose being shut off. The last of the water dribbling out. No. I am Natasha Romanoff. Agent of SHIELD. Auntie Nat. Clint. No! I am Natasha Romanoff. Agent of the Red Room. No. SHIELD.  
“Natasha,” a man’s voice calls. Natasha Romanoff. I am Natasha Romanoff. Natalia Romanoff. Natalia Romanova. A gag is thrown in the man’s mouth.  
“Natalia, stand up,” I hadn’t realized I was on the ground. I jump up quickly. Something isn’t right. I am not supposed to obey her. But that is ridiculous. Bad thought. I obey her. “I always hate using these drugs or trigger phrases,” she strokes my cheek, “They take away from the charm of a girl raised in the Red Room, the grace. Turns them into nothing more than a mindless soldier. God knows we have enough of those.” She talks to the man tied to the chair. He looks familiar. Clint. He is a friend. Right? No. Not right. Can’t be real. Dream. Is this all a dream? I feel anger. Fury. _Fury_. I answer to Fury, not Madame B. No, I always answer to Madame B. She made me. I exist only in her image. I have no place in this world. I feel guilt and anger, looking at the man in the chair. I should feel nothing. He is a prisoner of Madame B. It is not my job to question her. That is not my role. I have always struggled with knowing my role. Follow orders, Natalia. Something isn’t right.  
“Is he a guard? Or a soldier? Why is he a prisoner?” I ask, peering at him. He looks at me, pleading. Not a soldier.  
“Natalia, I used to like you for your freethinking inquisitiveness. But right not it is not welcome.” I feel weak at the knees at her rebuke. I string out a slew of apologies, waiting to be struck. In the past, too many questions led to her degloving me. I look down at my right hand and take out my knife.  
“Natasha, what are you doing?” I look up at the man tied to the chair and tilt my head to the side. He had managed to remove his gag despite his hands being tied.  
“That’s not my name,” But I responded to it, it sounds familiar. Madame B’s attention is back on me.  
“As much as I appreciate you punishing yourself for your insolence, I have a task for you.” I sheathe my knife and stand at attention.  
“Ready to comply,” I reply smoothly. The man in the chair blanches. Madame B strolls back to the front of the room, placing a hand on his shoulder.  
“Kill him.” That doesn’t seem right. I look down at the gun in my hand. I don’t want to kill him. Why don’t I want to kill me? I’m not supposed to want anything. What I want does not matter.  
“Nat, you’re in there, I know you are.” I hesitate. Nat. It is a term of endearment. “Come on, you’re Auntie Nat. Agent of SHIELD.” Auntie Nat. No. No. That isn’t real.  
“Kill him now, Natalia.” I cock my gun. I look the man in the eyes.  
“It’s okay, Nat. I forgive you. This isn’t you; I know that. You’re my best friend.”  
“Clint?” Something clicks. I look down at the gun and then between the two of them.  
“Natalia, I have ordered you to kill him.” Right. Kill him. I raise my weapon. Kill. I am made to kill. I fire and look away, unable to watch as it makes contact. The weapon slips to my hand, clattering to the floor.  
I sink to the ground. No. No. No. I couldn’t have done that. I didn’t do that. Bad. No. No. I did bad. They are going to kill me. I deserve it. They need to kill me. I am a liability.  
The door to the room bursts open, but I don’t open my eyes. I can’t look. I put my hands over my ears, I don’t want to hear it, the gunshot. I am a coward, not wanting to know when it is coming.  
“Natalia,” a stern, accented voice commands. “Natalia, get up.” I shake my head. I can’t get up, I can’t look. “Stop acting like a child. Pull yourself together.” The footsteps walk to the other side of the room. I begin to recite the story of the scorpion and the frog. Again. I mumble it faster and faster, trying to drown out the thoughts.  
“Natasha,” a voice says gently. “Come on Nat, we’ve got to get home.” He pulls my hands off my ears. “What is she saying?”  
“She is reciting a Russian fable. I believe your version is the farmer and the snake.” The woman’s footsteps come closer. I feel a knife slice across my arm, my eyes springing open in surprise. Everything comes rushing back into focus.  
“What the fuck?” Clint barks. Clint. A moan of anguish escapes my lips, I killed her.  
“She is better now.” Yelena crosses her arms.  
“Nat, you here with us?” I nod, standing shakily. My knees knock together when I see Madame B, lifeless, a single bullet embedded in her skull. Clint drags me out of the room, Yelena not far behind.  
“Why are you okay?” Clint accuses her. I press my back up against the wall, trying to get in air. I killed her. How could I do that? Why aren’t they punishing me? No. Clint isn’t Red Room. And that is Yelena. But I disobeyed direct orders. Bad.  
“Nat used to distract them when it was my turn, she got twice as much conditioning as everyone else. More wipes, blocks, the rough missions.”  
“I killed her,” my voice cracks. “Bad, bad, bad.” I shake my head.  
“Yelena, can you show me where the archives are kept?”  
“Nyet, Natalia is the only one alive now who knows.” I killed her. How could I kill her? She was going to kill Clint. I couldn’t let her kill Clint.  
“Natasha, come on, we’re still on a mission.” I nod blankly, unable to take my eyes off the classroom we just left. Even through the closed door, I can see Madame B’s body, burned into my mind. “Natasha, Fury’s orders.”  
“Fury’s orders,” I echo.  
“You have to show us where the files are.” Files. I can do that. Get the files. Follow orders. My feet begin to lead me. “Natasha, wait up,”  
We reach the foyer. Our footsteps echo on the tile floors. I run my hands across the wood pillars. The one closest to the studio. I pull on the panel facing the staircase. The hidden door creaks open, about six inches off the ground. I begin my descent down the ladder. Files. Find the files. I step off the last rung and onto the cement floor. It is cool and dry, climate controlled. I flick on the light. They turn on, one by one. Buzzing to life.  
“Holy shit,” I head towards my file. “Nat, where are you going?” Most of us have a folder, I have an entire drawer. I dump the contents out around me and begin going through it.  
I find one of my childhood notebooks, practicing English. The first page holds the fable I was reciting earlier. A laugh bubbles up in my throat. I can’t stop myself.  
“Nat, are you okay?” I grab my main file, the one holding my personal information, though I take the red notebook too. The rest are my missions. I don’t need those. I will remember soon enough. Maybe we can take away that I killed Madame B. No. I deserve to remember. I did bad. Like Drakov’s daughter. Learn from mistakes. Insolent. Disobedient. Insubordinate. Rebellious. Defiant. Bad. I rock back in forth on my feet, clutching the file close to my chest. This can’t be real. I didn’t kill her. No. No. No.  
“Nat, come here.” I go over to the desk he is sitting at, feeling like I am floating. “They have never wiped you brain, its all still there, just blocked.” I take the file from him, reading quickly.  
“Page fifty-six.” I find my voice and drop the document in front of him “I will be right back.” I hurry up the ladder.  
I return ten minutes later with two tanks of gasoline. Yelena nods in approval and takes one of them.  
“What are you doing?” Clint rushes over in panic, watching as we tip open the drawers, letting the contents spill out.  
“We are going to burn it all,” Yelena explains.  
“Why?”  
“No one should have this information,” She glares at him.   
“SHIELD’s good though, we’re the good guys.”  
“Even good men can be corrupted by too much power,” I begin to pour out the gasoline, soaking the papers. “I planted bombs upstairs. We have ten minutes.”  
“Natasha!” I frown in concentration. Files. I take care of the files. I killed her. I killed her. No. Take care of the files. It is taking everything I have not to fall back into myself. Finish the mission. Marble. You are made of marble. You will not fail.  
“No one else gets information. We end it.”  
“What about the other Widows? What if they want their files?” He gestures to the hundreds of cabinets.  
“Rest are dead,” Yelena states, “They weren’t good enough to survive.” Yelena grabs both our files.  
“What about the kids in training?”  
“Taken care of,” My stomach drops. “They were chained to their beds. Easy pickings.”  
“You killed children?”  
“Not children. Weapons. Monsters.”  
“They could have been saved,” Dead. They are all dead. Like how I killed Madame B. Bad. I killed my handler, my owner. My inventor. Without her, I would not exist.  
“Nyet, lost causes. They were alone.” She looks to me. “She is not good. Needs medical,”  
“Nat, come on,” I feel him pull me towards the ladder. We reach the foyer and I clutch my file and red notebook close my chest. Yelena steps forward with a match, dropping it down the hole. Instantly, I feel a rush of heat. “We have to get out of here before the bombs go off. How many did you plant?”  
“Nine,” I reply, walking back towards the classroom.  
“Where are you going?” I frown. “Nat, this place is going to explode in minutes,” He looks to Yelena, waving her off. The girl doesn’t need to be told twice. Her survival instincts have always been much stronger than mine. She runs. Clint is dragging me towards the front door when the first bomb goes off on the third floor. I use this distraction to try and make a break for Madame B. “Natasha!”  
“I can’t leave her! I did bad, can’t leave her,” I wail, struggling against his hold. The other bombs begin to go off, smoke is filling the foyer. The next explosion is much closer.  
I am on the ground, my face pressed into the snow. There is a heavy weight on top of me. It groans, rolling off. I sit up and stare at the academy, up in flames. Parts of the roof are gone, fire licks out through broken windows. I left her in there. I have to go back. I have to get her out. Someone is holding me back. There are other voices now. Echoing in my ear and in person. The feedback swirls in my brain. I need to go back in. Maybe she is still alive. I could have missed. She could still be alive. That is ridiculous. I put a bullet in her head. I should be with her. She shouldn’t burn alone. I belonged to her. I was hers. I thrash and scream, clawing at the arms that are holding me. They can’t stop me. I killed her. There is a prick in my neck. I need to go back. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. The world fades into black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked this chapter! Next one will be out soon, I have a bunch of papers due this week, so updates may be slower than normal. Next chapter will focus on Nat dealing with the fallout from killing Madame B. Thank you all for following along!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warning for discussions of suicide and suicidal thoughts***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for going MIA- finals week! I will be back to my normal frequent posting next week when classes get out! Because of that this chapter is a little bit on the shorter side, apologies again! Hope you are all staying safe and healthy!! Enjoy!!

I blink open my eyes to find myself in a dim place. I try to sit up, only to discover my chest retrained. And my ankles and wrists. I arch my back, trying to break the bonds. The cuffs are so tight, that even breaking my thumb would not allow me to be free. A howl of frustration escapes my lips just as the door is opening. I crane my neck, pulling harder.  
“Nat, it’s okay!” Clint rushes forward, dropping the cup he was holding. The ceramic shatters on the floor. I continue to tug and can feel the leather beginning to abrade my skin. “Natasha, if you don’t calm down, I can’t undo them,”  
“Undo,” I repeat back, my thoughts cloudy with fear.  
“Yes, take some deep breaths,” I try to relax my body, staring at Clint as he works on unlocking the restraints. “Please don’t run,” He unlocks my ankles last. I look at my appendages, all bleeding. Red begins to dot the hospital gown where the chest strap was lain.  
“Where…?” I trail off, looking around the room. Clint seems reluctant to answer. My heartbeat picks up.  
“Mental health ward,” No, no, no. Not that. I jump up and run for the door, my bare feet crunching against the broken mug. The door is locked, and I begin to desperately search for something, anything, to break free. “No one is coming in here, Nat. It’s just us.” That’s not true. There are undoubtedly guards stationed outside. Doctors on call. Ready to sedate me. Nothing good happens when I am sedated. They take things. Or add. I don’t know what is worse.  
“No, I can’t be in here, no,” Everything is too sharp, as though even the air is slicing my lungs. Something lands on my shoulder. I jerk back violently in surprise, falling onto the floor. I push back quickly, trying to distance myself from whatever just hit me. Clint is staring at me, his hand still suspended in the air. It was Clint putting a hand on my shoulder.  
“Nat, I want to take you home, but I can’t until you prove you’re not a danger to yourself,”  
“Danger to myself? Look what I did! I killed, I killed,” I can’t even say it. “Bad, so bad,” I shake my head.  
“You saved my life. She tortured you for decades.”  
“I was hers, I belonged to her. Not my place. How could I?”  
“If you don’t calm down, they are going to send in psych,”  
“No!” my voice is shrill, “No therapist!” I knew we weren’t alone. That was a lie. He lied. The vision of the last one, attacking me with the syringe instantly play in my mind. “No, please. I’ll be good. I’ll be good,” I hug my legs close to my chest.  
“That isn’t what I meant,” he placates, “I brought you some clothes from home. Can you change into them?” I stand up unsteadily, keeping my back against the wall. Clint won’t hurt me. He isn’t going to hurt me. I step away slowly from the wall, dropping my gown. My feet leave tracks of blood on the blue linoleum floor. He sighs and I realize my mistake. _Warning next time_.  
“I’m sorry, I forgot, I’m sorry,”  
“It’s okay, just get dressed, you’re okay,” he averts his eyes. I pull on the sweatpants and t-shirt that are folded on the nightstand. Nothing feels right.  
“Are you going to kill me?”  
“I think we have long since established that I am not going to do that,”  
“I killed,” I can’t say it, “Where is the loyalty in that? Who wants a weapon that kills its owner?”  
“You are not a weapon, Natasha.” Clint steps closer, “I need to know you aren’t going to hurt yourself,” I sit down on the bed, feeling off balance.  
“What would it matter?” _You have no place in this world_.  
“Because I care about you. I don’t want you to kill yourself,”  
I laugh, running my fingers through my hair, still sticky with soot. He looks perturbed by my hysterics. It is almost maniacal, unhinged. I think I may be on drugs. Laughing was not the appropriate response, no matter how ridiculous the question may seem. “Nat,”  
“I can’t kill myself.”  
“That isn’t what it looked like on the quinjet,” I don’t remember being on the quinjet. However, considering the fact that I am still alive, there is no way I was actually trying.  
“I’m programmed to not be able to. Don’t you think if I could, I would be dead already?”   
“Nat,”  
“I will not be killing myself. I think wanting to run into the fire was more of a failsafe,” I look closer at my foot begin to dig out pieces of porcelain with my fingernails.  
“Let me take you home. We can have dinner, watch a movie.”  
“Whatever you want me to do,”  
“No, come on. You must have an opinion,” There is a knock at the door, and I tense, stopping my task. “It’s probably Fury, is it okay if he comes in here?”  
“Not up to me,” Clint frowns but says nothing, going over to the door.  
“Sir,” Clint greets at the door. I stand at attention when he enters, despite my knees knocking together and the room spinning. I don’t know what cocktail of drugs they put in me to have me knocked out long enough for a five-point restraint system.  
“Agent Romanoff,” Fury greets me.  
“Sir,” I notice now how slurred my voice is. I sway slightly.  
“You just took down one of the most dangerous terrorist operations in the world, please get back in bed.” I jump to do as he asks, lurching forward. Clint grabs my arm and a strangled sound comes out involuntarily as I shrink away. “Natasha, no one here is going to hurt you.”  
“You aren’t going to punish me?” I try to think of why I would be spared. “Did you take the punishment for me?” I turn to Clint, my heart jumping to my throat.  
“Nat, no one is in trouble.”  
“You did good, Romanoff.” No, I didn’t. I killed her. Like a dog killing its owner. I can feel the back of her hand striking my cheek. _Little Spider_. A fingernail being pulled out. _A true Black Widow_. Shot in the femur. _Well done, Natalia_. Whip cracking against my back. _You always were my favorite_. Hands plunged in boiling water. _You always were my favorite_. Dancing with glass in my slippers. _You always were my favorite_. Psychedelics. Paralytics. Hallucinogens. Sensory deprivation. Starvation. Beatings. The wipes. Electricity coursing through my body, leather bit in my mouth. According to the report Clint was reading, it wasn’t necessary. It was to create a negative association. The wipes were done using a machine that interacted with brainwaves, combine with a general anesthetic. Everything is still there, all the memories. And I will never know them. _You always were my favorite_.  
“Natasha,” I blink and see Clint sitting in front of me. Fury is gone. “We’re going to stay here overnight for observation, okay?”  
“We? Is Yelena here?”  
“No, she left when the building went up. I’m going to stay; I’m not leaving you alone.”  
“Laura, Cooper,”  
“I already spoke to her. She said she’ll see us tomorrow with lots of food.” I nod. “Nat, we need to talk about what happened,”  
“I almost killed you.”  
“You didn’t even come close. If you had been trying to kill me, I’d be dead.” I feel myself getting tired once more. “Fury and Coulson are really impressed. You,”  
“Maria!” I interrupt, scrambling to untangle myself from the sheets that I somehow ended up wrapped in.  
“Woah, Nat. Maria is fine. Shot in the abdomen, missed all major organs. She is okay.”  
“You’re saying my name a lot.”  
“It seemed to help, in the school,” he avoids saying its name.  
“It did.” I flex my feet and feel that they are bandaged. How long was a stuck in my own head? What is wrong with me? _I killed her_. She tortured me. Took away my personhood. I was hers. I have no place in this world. No place for what I am. She made me into a monster, a thing. And I hate that I killed her. What is wrong with me? How much of me is me? How much is what they made? They played with my brain, my mind. Even my own thoughts might not be mine.  
“Natasha, are you here with me?” I nod slowly, trying to catch my breath. “I need verbal confirmation, Tash.”  
“I’m here,” My voice cracks.  
“What’s going on? I can’t help unless you tell me.”  
“I killed her. I killed Madame B.”  
“I know.”  
“She turned me into a monster and,”  
Nat you aren’t a,” I silence him with glare.  
“She turned me into this thing, this thing other than human. And I killed her. But this is the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. I would rather be flayed again,”  
“ _Again_?”  
“Than to experience this. I was hers. I belonged to her. I was made by her to serve her and the KGB. I have no place in this world without her. The world is much better off, but I’m not.”  
“You did the right thing,”  
“I know. I’d do it again.” I’m surprised by the admission. Clint is as well. “If it meant another little girl didn’t have to become like me, I would kill her a thousand times over. I only wish I could offer myself the same fate.” I don’t specify if I mean avoiding the program or killing myself. I don’t even know which I mean. Neither. Both. I don’t know. Nothing is making sense. The world is off its axis. Would I really kill her again? Could I do it? If she was threatening Clint. If Clint hadn’t been there, I don’t think I could have done it. Her mistake. She thought Clint made me weak. Mercy. Kindness. She underestimated just how vulnerable he made me. Just how much damage treating me like a person caused. How much it wore away at the perfect weapon I had been made into. If I’m not a weapon, what am I?  
“A person,” I hadn’t realized I said that part aloud. I blink, looking at my partner, “An agent. An aunt. A reckless driver. One of the worst cooks in the world. A hero.” I scoff. He shoots me a look that rivals one of my own. “A friend, my best friend.”  
“I don’t feel like the person you’ve described. She doesn’t feel real.”  
“She is, she's you," I must have looked doubtful, as he moves to assure me, "That’s okay, we’ll get there. We were almost there before.” Were we? It seems impossible.   
“Why are you doing all of this? You’ve done more than pay it forward as far as Coulson is concerned.”  
“Because I love you,” He shoots me a lopsided smile. I knit my eyebrows together. “What?”  
“No one has ever said that to me before,” Can I feel love? Do I love Clint and his family? How do I know?  
“Don’t think too hard about it, Nat. It isn’t a challenge or a riddle. Love just is.” He stands up shoving his hands in his pockets, “You need to rest. They have practically the entire pharmacy coursing through you right now.”  
“I can’t.” I tighten my jaw.  
“I’ll stay here, take watch while you sleep. Does that work?”  
“No.”  
“Don’t you trust me?”  
“With my life.” I reply instantly.  
“Then what’s the problem?”  
“I don’t trust me.” He sighs and looks at the cuffs.  
“I trust you.”  
“I know.” The leather wraps around my gauze laden wrists, notably looser than before. I lie back, staring at the blank ceiling. He clicks off the light.  
Once, I broke into a politician’s house to steal data off his computer. I had got in through his daughter’s bedroom window. There were plastic stars on the ceiling the glowed in the dark. It seemed like a perfect way to sleep, under the stars every night. I had sworn if I ever had a child, that I would put stars up on their ceiling, so that every night they could look at the constellations. To see that the universe isn’t so small, that there is an entire galaxy of something waiting for them.  
That is what I told myself when they dropped us in the woods, with only the stars to guide us back to the academy, back when we were ten.  
When I finished getting the data from the computer, and went to slip out of the house, I took a star off the ceiling. The smallest one. A little bit of hope to hold onto. For the universe that awaits me. Three months later, I was sterilized.  
“Clint?” I ask in the new darkness of the room, hearing him settle into his seat beside the bed.  
“Hm?”  
“I think I broke something,”  
“What bone? Where? How could they have missed that during health checks?”  
“No, something else. Nothing is right.”  
“Can you explain it?”  
“I don’t think so.”   
“You’re still Natasha. I’m still Clint. We’re still partners. Black Widow and Hawkeye, right?”   
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated! Thank you all for reading along!! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone for the last chapter, it was really dark. I actually had no clue how dark until I saw your comments... (Which were greatly appreciated!) Thank you all for always commenting, they really do mean the world! Please enjoy this much longer and much lighter chapter!!
> 
> **Also!! Great weekend for Nat and Wanda fans- Black Widow in talks to be in Season 2 of the Falcon and Winter Soldier, while WandaVision is expected to still come out late 2020!!**

“Nat, are you good?” I nod. We are sitting in the cafeteria, trying to get something to eat before we head back home. “You picked the same breakfast as me,”  
“I’m sorry,” I look at the bagel sandwich and black coffee. “I can get something else,”  
“No, you’re fine. It’s just that you had started picking out different food than me,”  
“I’m tired.” Too tired to try and calculate nutritional value. Too tired to try and think about what would taste good.  
“I know,” Clint gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. My wet hair has started to stain the grey t-shirt and I push it over my shoulder, not enjoying the way the damp fabric clings to me. He is staring at me; I avert my eyes and take a bite of the sandwich. “Maybe we could hit the gym before we go? What do you think?” Why is he doing this to me? “Natasha,”  
“Whatever you would like, Agent Barton,” I wince, “Sorry, I’m sorry.”  
“Hey, its okay. You’re okay. You can call me whatever you want, as long as its not late to dinner.” I wrinkle my nose at this colloquial, which causes Agen- Clint to laugh. “We can just go home, I’m sure Laura and Cooper would love to see you.”  
“I have kept you from going to see them,” Guilt gnaws at my stomach.  
“It has only been a few days; I have been on much longer missions.”  
“We can go home, if you’d like.”  
“What do you want?” He asks.  
“I am not enjoying this game, Clint.” I push away my breakfast, appetite gone.  
“This isn’t a game; I’m trying to make sure I am not forcing you to do anything.” I nod, my thoughts feeling cloudy. Am I still on drugs? Or is this the world without Madame B? “We’ll go home.”  
I follow him out of the empty cafeteria, no one else is here at eight o’clock on a Sunday. Clint talks incessantly on our walk to his truck, though none of his words are truly sticking. I feel trapped in the world between wakefulness and sleep. A distorted reality.  
“Nat,” I turn to look at him, trying to focus. “Are you listening to a word I am saying?”  
“No,” I answer honestly. “I’m sorry.”  
“We can stay here another night, if that is what you want.”  
“Clint, please stop asking me to make choices,” Desperation bleeds into my voice. Pain flashes across his face and I don’t know why. However, a moment later, he has a forced a smile on his face. Great, masking. I am rubbing off on him. His phone dings.  
“I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t eat our breakfast, Laura just sent a picture of the breakfast she made.” Clint shows me his phone. I nod offering a weak smile.  
“Looks delicious,” I climb into the passenger seat of the truck.  
“If you aren’t feeling up to,” he stops himself, “Sorry.” His sigh is heavy. How am I worth this turmoil?  
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. Choices are mine to make. “I would,” I rake my fingers through my hair, “I would like to go to breakfast.”  
“Perfect, I’ll let her know,” I hug my legs to my chest and rest my head on the window. I feel small, weak.  
We pull up to our apartment building. Clint insists on carrying my duffel bag. He doesn’t give me the opportunity to go to my unit before breakfast. I wonder if he has orders not to leave me alone. SHIELD probably thinks I am a flight risk. Or that I will defect again. Betray them.  
“Welcome home,” Laura offers softly. I hadn’t realized I was hovering in the doorway, neither in nor out. Laura’s open expressions are like a breath of fresh air. No deceit, open concern. I step into the apartment.  
“Nat, you are on coffee duty,” I walk over to the pot and begin to change out the filter. Clint leaves the kitchen and Laura comes over to me.  
“Thank you,” She offers quietly, “You’ve saved his life twice now. That I know of,”  
“I don’t want him to die,” It seems to be the only way I can offer the sentiment I am trying to provide.  
“Me neither.” The coffee machine begins to whir as Clint walks in with Cooper. I pour three cups of coffee and sit down at the dining table. Laura has made scrambled eggs, French toast, bacon, and cut fresh fruit.  
“Honey, you went all out.” Clint digs into his plate after placing Cooper onto a play mat. I eat the food halfheartedly, more focused on my coffee.  
“I can make you something else to eat. Pancakes?”  
“This is great, Laura. Thank you. I am just not very hungry.” I give Clint my plate. “Am I allowed to go to my apartment?”  
“Of course you are,”  
“I am going to go sleep until the drugs wear off. Thank you for the breakfast. I am sorry I could not eat more.” I stand up and push in my chair. My duffel back sits by the front door and I pull my housekeys out. Inside, the apartment is just as I left it. It looks like a showroom. Impersonal. It should, I had looked at pages on a catalog and ordered everything, recreating the room. I drop my bag in front of the closet holding the washing machine before heading to my bedroom. Every piece of my being aches. Mind and body. If I had a soul, that would probably ache too. Instead, there is a gaping hole. One that can never be filled, insatiable. Empty. Clearly yearning for something that was taken away, something that should be there but has long since been destroyed. I climb into my bed, locking my right wrist to the headboard.  
“Natasha,” I blink open my eyes and see someone standing over me. I jerk away quickly, gasping in pain as my wrist pulls against the metal cuff. “Nat, it’s me, you’re okay.”  
“Jesus, Clint. What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” I sit up, reaching across to grab the key off my nightstand.  
“You gave me keys,”  
“For emergencies,” I rub my eyes. The drugs seemed to have finally worn off, the world once again sharp and painful. “How long have I been asleep?”  
“It is five o’clock, in the morning.” I blanche. “I have been calling you and you weren’t answering.” I look at my phone, definitely dead. “I thought you,”  
“I told you I can’t do that.” I stretch, my body aching.  
“So, you’re okay?”  
“Besides the fact I just slept for nineteen hours?” I go over to my dresser and pull out my running clothes. “You’re not dressed for running,”  
“I didn’t know what I was going to find in here,”  
“You didn’t sleep last night?” It is more of statement than a question.  
“I was worried about you,”  
“Well, worry no more.” I reply dryly, heading into the living area. I power up my laptop and check my SHIELD email.  
“Nat,”  
“Fury wants to see us at eight.”  
“You should be taking the day off. Get lunch with Laura, watch trashy TV.”  
“Fury wants to see us at eight,” I repeat.  
“Nat,”  
“Fury wants to see us at eight,” My voice rises an octave and my breaths come in faster and faster.  
“Okay, okay. We’ll go in and see him.” He walks over slowly, “I’m going to go grab the first aid kit, okay?” I look down and see blood dripping from my hands down to my wrists. I unfurl my fist and see my nails have left deep, jagged cuts on my palms. As I clenched my fist tighter, I had pulled back my skin. The fleshy skin around my thumb is shredded.  
He returns a moment later, the white plastic box in hand. I keep my eyes on the red cross as he tends to my hands. My eyes flit to him as I hear a familiar clipping sound. He is cutting my nails. The bloodied trimmings fall onto my desk. He then takes my hands in his, holding them softly. I brink myself to look up at him, meeting his gaze. Tears are forming in my eyes, and I blink quickly to try and hold them back.  
“I’m broken,”  
“We all are. How else is all the good supposed to get in?”

* * *

Clint and I are put on desk duty for two weeks. Fury and Coulson promise it is not punishment, but a precaution.  
“I never thought it was my real birthday,” I look over to Clint from his spot at the desk across from me.  
“What?” He looks up from the red journal.  
“I never thought they would have let me keep my real birthday, or name.” I stare at the birth certificate in hand. I try to keep my eyes away from the names of my parents. “They were that confident. They could have changed either to whatever they wanted.”  
“Nat,”  
“I’m here. Don’t worry. Just thinking.” I prop one leg up on the table, “They took the name my parents gave me and tainted it.”  
“Do you want to find them?”  
“Find who?” I move onto some of my medical papers.  
“Your parents,”  
“No.” I flip through the thick packet, “They have moved on.”  
“You know that?”  
“Well, no,” I admit, “But in my head, yes. They had two more kids after me. Andrey and Irina. They moved to Germany after. Started a new life, one they deserved.” I take one last look at my birth certificate, “I figured if my name were real, my birthday would have been Christmas Day. That is what Natalia means. Giving me that name would have been a small act of rebellion, I hope that is why they did it.”  
“How old were you?”  
“I think I was two, maybe three?” I tap my finger on my chin, “It would have had to been around then. The serum, if they inject it into anyone older, it has side effects. The blocks that are needed to become a Widow don’t take. You basically become a mindless soldier. They kept testing it though. I saw six different girls have bullets put in their brains because of it.”  
“Good God,”  
“So I guess it was good, if I had to be taken, that I was taken so young.” Or given up. Given to the Red Room. That has always been a nagging possibility.  
“SHIELD could find them in a matter of days,”  
“They don’t need an assassin uprooting their retirement, Clint.”  
“Not an assassin, their daughter.”  
“I said no.” I pull my leg off the desk, sitting up straight. He nods to me in apology, going back to the notebook.  
Putting together our report for the Red Room operation ended up taking the full two weeks of desk duty. Clint insisted on us taking frequent breaks. Whether this was going out for subs or watching movies on his computer. Though I gave him a hard time, it helped.  
“You ready to spar?” I turn to smile at Clint. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”  
“I just came from R&D they developed a new weapon for me.”  
“Really? They haven’t done anything for me in ages,”  
“Take down an international crime syndicate, maybe they’ll throw you a bone.”  
“I did!” He laughs, checking me lightly with his shoulder. “Seriously though, what is it?”  
“I named them Widow’s Bites. They are electric bracelets that shock my opponent.”  
“What unlucky intern got stuck with the test job?”  
“You ready to get your ass kicked, Barton?” I tease, finishing my stretches.  
“Why else would I be here?”  
Despite his self-deprecating comment, Clint holds his own. I duck and weave under each blow, and he begins to get irritated with my defensive moves. Constantly being on the offensive begins to wear him down, and in three moves later, he is down for the count. I offer my hand, pulling him up off the mat.  
“Looks like we’ve got an audience.” I turn and see Rumlow and Rollins, along with their merry band of mercenaries.   
“Like getting your ass handed to you by a girl, Barton?” Rollins jeers.  
“It would take her less than five minutes to beat you,” he replies. I look to Clint with dismay. I have no desire to spar with Rollins. I would much rather we practice his Russian, like we had planned.  
“Scared, Romanoff?” Rumlow sneers.  
“She’s not scared of anything,” I am going to kill him.  
“Well, let’s see what you’re made of, Widow.” Rollins pulls off his sweatshirt, stepping onto the mat. I hope for my phone to ring, being called out of the gym for a mission. Of course, this does not happen. I fix my ponytail and step back onto the blue plastic.  
His starting stance is sloppy. His should be getting leather across the back of his calves. Rollins strikes first, which is predictable. I dance around him, my hands behind my back. How is he on STRIKE Team Delta? Then I see it, he is being clumsy on purpose. Luring me into a false sense of security so he can strike. I catch his arm just as it goes in for a hit. He does a sweeping kick, pulling my legs out from underneath me. I don’t hit the ground, using the momentum from my fall to turn into a back handspring. My already taut core tightens with the movement. We are going on four minutes, and Clint’s challenge is clearly on his mind. His moves become dirtier, like pulling my hair, or going for my breasts. This is getting tiresome. I catch his forearm once more, stopping a blow. I am about to pin him to the ground. I can already map out my movements. He grins at me, which is wrong. He must know what is going to happen next. I am going to flip him over my shoulder. As I move to do so, he whispers in my ear,  
“Ready to comply, Natalia?” I hear a snap and rear back. No. No. No. I place my hands over my ears. I can’t hear the orders. If I don’t hear them, I can’t follow them. No. No. No. Not in the Red Room. Why did he say those words? Am I in the Red Room? Has none of this been real? Did I kill Clint? Have I been hallucinating? What drugs do they have me on? The academy never burnt down. None of it was real. Marble. I will not fail. I failed. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I find my hands have slipped from my ears, now hugging me instead.  
“Will someone shut her up!” Rumlow yells. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  
“What the hell happened in here?” Maria. No. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.  
“Where did you learn those words? Where did you hear that?” Clint demands. No. Stop. Why are they torturing me with this? What will they have to gain?  
“I overheard Fury and Coulson in the hall,” Rollins is gripping his elbow, bent in the wrong direction. Did I do that? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  
“Someone shut her up before I do it myself!” Gun. No. Not real. Can’t die when it’s not real.  
“Agent Rumlow, lower your weapon. That is an order! Take Rollins to the medbay before I write you up.”  
“Nat, hey, you’re okay.”  
“No, no, no,” Rumlow was going to shoot me. Did I kill someone? No. I will sparring Rollins. I broke his arm. That was on of the first rule Clint taught me. No breaking the bones of your opponent. It become increasingly obvious that this is real, and that I am not in the Red Room.  
“Natasha, stand up,” Maria orders. I jump to comply. “That wasn’t your fault, okay?” I look from her to Clint. How could that not be my fault? I hurt another agent.  
“He shouldn’t have said that to you, he shouldn’t have known.” Ready to comply. I feel bile rise up in my throat and run to the trashcan by the door. “Thank you, Maria.”  
“First day back from being shot and I already have to stop Rumlow from killing someone.”  
“I’m sorry I broke Rollins’s arm.” I wipe the vomit from my mouth, spitting one last time into the barrel.  
“The prick deserved it,”  
“Clint,”  
“I’d like to leave,” I look to them both.  
“Nat, you don’t need permission.”  
“We carpooled.”  
“Right. Right,” Clint grins sheepishly, “Thanks again, Hill.” I follow him out of the gym and into the elevator towards the garage. “Are you okay?”  
“Peachy,” I close my eyes, resting my head on the cool glass wall of the elevator.  
“You know, you did good. You didn’t kill him.”  
“I snapped his arm like a twig and collapsed to the ground in a sniveling mess in front of not one, but two commanding officers.”  
“You weren’t crying,”  
“Yes, well that definitely makes up for the repeated apologies and shouting that this isn’t real. I for sure don’t look crazy and unhinged.” The elevator doors slide open and I open my eyes, stepping off.  
“You aren’t crazy.”  
“Whatever you say,” I climb into the Porsche and instantly feel calmer, more in control.  
“So where to?”  
“The beach,”  
“Nat, it’s January.”  
“As far as I know, the beach doesn’t go away in the winter.”   
“Why the beach?” he asks as we pull out of the garage.  
“First place I thought of,”

* * *

It is two weeks, and a four-hour meeting with Fury and Coulson, later that Clint and I are sent out on another mission. It is supposed to be a simple assassination, though it seems like we can never have anything simple. We have to sit on a rooftop in perfect silence for six hours. This proves to be a near impossible task for Clint. By the time our two targets step out of the building, and both of our shots are perfectly timed, Clint begins speaking again. He starts telling me of every observation and thought he had over the past six hours.  
“That’s it,” I throw my hands up, “We’re learning sign language.”  
“What?”  
“I can never listen to a post mission word vomit like this again. Two hours, Clint. You have been talking for two hours.”  
“You missed talking to me,” He gives me his usual lopsided grin.  
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” I laugh as we finish up our meal. I see something out of the corner of my eye and wait for her to approach. “Hello, Yelena.”  
“Back in Eastern Europe so soon, Natalia?”  
“It is Natasha now,”  
“Right,” she sits down at the table and looks to Clint, “I could still kill you.”  
“I have no doubt.”  
“I don’t hate him,” she turns to me.  
“That’s a glowing review coming from her,” I smile at Clint before redirecting my attention back to Yelena, “What are you doing here?”  
“Heard you were in the area,” She takes my dinner plate, beginning to work eat the meal herself.  
“How did you know we were here?”  
“I hacked SHIELD, relax. You have not been made.”  
“You hacked SHIELD,”  
“It isn’t as if Natalia hasn’t done it,”  
“Nat!”  
“I was fifteen, give me a break.” I steal my plate back from my sister, “What have you been up to?”  
“Revenge killings,” Yelena’s eyes glint. “It hasn’t made the news; I am careful.”  
“I’m glad you have found something to keep you preoccupied.”  
“Sarcasm from Natalia, never thought I’d see the day.”  
“Are we talking about the same Nat? Because she is possibly the most sarcastic person I have ever met,”  
“Her? God no. Always so serious. Like marble statue.”  
“Someone had to keep you in line,” I tug her braid affectionately. She swats my hand away.  
“How are you? You weren’t good last time.”  
“I’m fine,”  
“And a liar,” She takes my plate once more, this time I let her have it. “You have look in your eyes. Haunted.”  
“Do you have money? A cell phone?” I ask, quickly changing the subject. She nods, continuing to eat my borscht, and hands over her cell phone. I put my number in and press call so I have hers as well. “If you need anything, please call me. And you can always come join SHIELD. They would be lucky to have you.”  
“Organized crime is your thing, Natasha. Not mine,” She used my name.  
“SHIELD is not a crime organization,” Clint cuts in.  
“Okay, American.” Yelena pats his hand condescendingly. “Thank you for dinner. I will see you soon.” She stands up leaves without another word.  
We leave Bulgaria after dinner, boarding the quinjet. I sit in the copilot’s seat, my feet propped on the dash. Clint only ever lets me pilot when he is too injured or tired to do so. His stomach is weak.  
“I am glad she is okay,” he looks at me out of the corner of his eye.  
“Me too. She seems better than me.”  
“I mean, she is on a killing spree,”  
“I would expect nothing less.”  
“I’m surprised they let you be friends,” Clint says carefully. I look over at him, taking my eyes off the sky.  
“I had other friends but was forced to kill them. They were weak. I had to make Yelena indispensable. That is why she is the only other Widow left. I trained her to be better. Whatever it took to make sure she wasn’t next.”  
“You love her,” Is this what love feels like? Not wanting the other person to die? Willing to do whatever it takes to keep them safe? Wanting to see them succeed and grow?  
“Maybe,”

In March, I am finally allowed on solo missions again. It should have been sooner, but there was an incident in Honduras. And India. Angola too. Clint managed to talk me down each time. But they required my skillset, and they sent Clint as my extractor, waiting on the sidelines just in case. I hate it. This part of my job upsets him, and I hate to cause him pain. He has long sense stopped trying to explain to me why it bothers him and makes a valiant effort to try and hide it. After two hours, I leave the hotel suite with the information we needed and my body sore.  
“Hey, how are you?” Clint asks as I board the jet.  
“Excited to get out of this dress,” The faux patent leather sticks to my sweaty skin. I go over to my bag and change into jeans and a t-shirt, pulling my SHIELD windbreaker over it. His concern is evident as I settle in beside him. “I am fine. Really. The mission went well. You didn’t need to come in and talk me down. I call that a roaring success.”  
“Yeah, you’re right. I just worry about you.”  
“Worry about me?” I scoff, “I have to worry about your ass every time we leave our building.”  
“You’re doing better,”  
“I am trying,”  
“No really. You stopped following me.”  
“I was never stalking you, Clint. We happen to go to the same locations frequently.”  
“No, I mean, you trailed behind me. But recently you started walking next to me again.” Had I? I didn’t notice anything had changed.  
“I wish you had told me; I would have fixed it sooner.”   
“That was not something you needed to worry about. I’m not telling you to upset you, I just wanted show you that you really are doing better.” He lands the quinjet and I nudge his shoulder in thanks. I begin to make my way towards the Triskelion, but Clint calls me off.  
“I have to debrief with Coulson,”  
“They told me you could do it Monday. It’s the weekend. Come on, if we leave now, we’ll be home in time for dinner.” I look at him doubtfully, “Nothing is going to happen, Nat. You can still type up your report tonight.”  
“Fine. But if I get in trouble, I am blaming it on you.”  
“You never get in trouble,” Clint grumbles as we climb into his truck, “I don’t know who’s Fury’s favorite anymore: you or Hill.”  
“Maria has been to Fury’s apartment,”  
“Fury has an apartment?”  
“He has to live somewhere, Clint.”  
“I thought he just lived at the Triskelion. He’s always there.” I laugh, and soon he is too. We pull up to the building and I see Maria’s car. Coulson’s too.  
“What is going on?” Clint’s birthday is in June, Laura’s in November. There are no holidays today. He drags me forward and in the back corner of the lot, I spot Fury’s SUV. “Are we in trouble? Am I? Is this about the smoke bomb we put in Rumlow’s office?”  
“Come inside and stop questioning things,” We get to the door of his apartment, “Also, they don’t know it was us, so don’t mention it.” He pulls it open we step inside. A banner hangs from the ceiling, reading _Happy Defection Day!_  
“What is this?” I look at our friends and to Clint.  
“Nat, it’s your one year anniversary,” I hadn’t noticed, or even thought about it.  
“You did this for me?”  
“Of course!” I am met with warm greetings from everyone.  
“We are glad to have you on the team, Romanoff,” Fury compliments. I am floored by the sentiment. Laura passes me Cooper as she grabs more beers from the fridge, and I realize this is my first time holding him since we took down the Red Room. I had been too afraid that I would lose myself, hurt him. He babbles happily, snuggling against my chest. I eat with him sitting in my lap, careful to keep the silverware out of reach.  
After takeout and cake Fury, Hill, and Coulson leave. They once again express how happy they are that I joined the team, and that Clint decided not to kill me. Laura takes Cooper to put him down for the night, and it is just my best friend and I.  
“I don’t think you got that at iParty,” I nod to the banner.  
“I figure we’re going to get good use out of it. This is going to be a yearly occurrence.”  
“You’re keeping me around?”  
“As if you could get rid of me.” He grins, “Wait, I have something for you. I’ll be right back,” He dashes into his bedroom and returns a moment later with a poorly wrapped box. A shiny red bow has been taped on top.  
“You didn’t have to get me anything,”  
“Just open it,” He looks at me with open and honest affection. I peel off the paper slowly, much to his irritation. “Please stop torturing me,”  
“I would just hate to ruin this wrap job,”  
“You are impossible,” He reaches forward and tears off the black wrapping paper. I look at the steel box. It is a weapons case of some kind. “Open it,” he implores once more. I click open the case and look at the gun. Engraved on the handle is an hourglass. I pick it up and turn it over. On the other side, an arrow. “Do you like it?”  
“It’s perfect,” I breathe, running my finger along the engravings. “Thank you.”  
“You’re my best friend, and I’m here for you no matter what. You’re a part of my family. I love you, Nat.”  
“I love you too,” The words come out quickly and automatically. I am surprised my mouth knew how to form the phrase. But it felt natural. And I realize its true. I love him, and Laura, and Cooper. Perhaps it is not the same way others feel love, it is most likely not. No emotions ever feel like the way they are described to me. But in my own way, I know for sure that I do indeed love them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked this lighter chapter! Next one will be out later this week! Thank you for following along, and as always, feedback and comments are welcome and appreciated!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Minor trigger warning for mild gore**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you are all doing well! This chapter is a little sad, but next one is all fluff with holidays and goodness! Okay, enjoy!!

Spring bleeds into summer and I begin to feel more like the person Clint had described to me. Clint and I spent the month of May on a mission in Spain. In June, we go on a two-week trip to Virginia Beach to celebrate his birthday. It is Cooper’s first time going to the ocean, and at eight months old he is crawling everywhere. Despite being engaged for a year and a half, Laura and Clint are yet to be married. Neither seem in much of a rush to move beyond that. I learn that they met a few months into Clint joining SHIELD. He had been shot outside the hospital Laura worked at, and she was a nurse in the ER. Right before he went into surgery, he gripped Laura’s hand.  
“You have to promise me something,”  
“What?”  
“If I make it, go on a date with me. I took a bullet for this country, please,”  
“The bullet grazed your calf. The only reason you’re going into surgery is because your appendix burst.”  
“But imagine if the last thing I hear before I die, is rejection?”  
“Fine, yes. I will go on a date with you if you survive this common, low risk, procedure.”  
“Now I have something to live for,” he trailed off, waiting for her name.  
“Laura,”  
“Clint,” he grinned.  
It was the most in character story of Clint I had ever heard. Laura recalled it with equal fondness. It is when she met Coulson as well, assuming he was Clint’s father. When remembering this part of the story, Clint only replied with, “I wish” before changing the subject to their first date. Despite how much Clint talks, and shares, I am yet to hear any stories about his life before his parents died. But I know better than to ask.  
It has become habit for Yelena to turn up randomly after, or occasionally during, our missions. Hill has given up on kicking her out of the SHIELD system, as she hacks back in each time. I may be good at languages, but Yelena can code better than anyone else I know.  
She did not just observe and cause chaos in the SHIELD servers, though she did plenty of both. At one point, she shot someone with her sniper rifle in the next building over, saving Clint’s life.  
“Stupid American, you get Tasha killed,” she scolds afterwards, over sushi. Sometime over the past few months, she started calling me a nickname. A form of affection I thought I would never hear from her. Clint was more often than not referred to as _Stupid American_ with a similar affection.  
“I’m pretty sure death’s not coming for Nat without permission.”  
“I am death,” I drawl, snapping a chopstick in half. Yelena laughs, a sound I haven’t heard since we were children.  
I manage to go months without slipping up, the last one being just before Clint’s birthday. I should have known that things couldn’t stay so good for so long. We can only have so much luck.  
We are sitting in Coulson’s office. They have determined that I no longer need to meet with Fury for every mission. Clint assures me this is a good thing, that Fury trusts me enough to have someone else oversee me completely. Disinterest means something entirely different in the Red Room.  
“Natasha, I promise, this is a good thing.” I nod mutely, waiting for Coulson. When he enters, I stand up, despite Clint not doing the same.  
“You know, Agent Barton, an ounce of the respect that Romanoff demonstrate could go a long way.”  
“Probably,” he grins cheekily. Our handler shakes his head with bemused fondness.  
“We have a time sensitive mission for the two of you. It means you would have to leave tonight,”  
“Cooper’s first birthday party is this weekend,”  
“You should be back with time to spare,” Coulson assures him. “You’re going to Cuba,”  
“Why?” I had grown used to Clint asking these questions, though they made me no more comfortable with them.  
“There is a group of scientists doing human experimentation. There are at least six missing, presumed dead. We have reason to believe there might be more, hopefully still alive. Wheels up in twenty,”  
I sit beside Clint in the quinjet, in the copilot’s seat as he once again turned down my offer to pilot.  
“I wish we could fight, I don’t know, aliens or something,” I look over at him and raise my eyebrows. “It’s always evil scientists and mercenaries. Let’s change it up.”  
“I’m going to hold you to that if we ever have to fight aliens. If they were real,”  
“Aliens are one hundred percent real, Tash. And let me tell you, _when_ we fight them, I’m holding you to _that_.”  
We land in Havana two hours later. As I finish sharpening my knives, Clint selects arrows for his bow.  
“You’re bringing your gun this time, right?” I ask.  
“It was one time. And it wasn’t on purpose,” he defends. “And the bows worked out fine,”  
“I had to throw you my back up from the other side of the room,”  
“Bows work fine most of the time,”  
“Come on, Hawkeye,” I tease.   
We head into the building. It looks more like a prison than a lab. It is concerning how long we have gone without detection. The place is eerie, like a ghost town. But a quick scan shows that there is electricity running.  
“I’ll look for survivors, you find the testing room?” Clint asks. I nod, scaling the wall and popping up a ceiling tile. “So, you’re a literal spider now?”  
“And you’re a literal pain in the ass,” I joke back before returning the tile to its original place. I wait a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and begin to make my way through the space. Careful to put my weight only on the metal frame, I move lithely. The floorplan I memorized plays out in my head, and I pause at what we thought to be the lab where the tests are being conducted.  
I pull back a ceiling tile and look down. There are at least twenty men gathered around a door. The lab is modern and clean, all stainless steel. They are crane to look through the small window on a door.  
That is when I hear the screams. As I jump down, I get a view into the room. There is a blonde woman, blood pouring out of her eyes. Her screams are weakening. No. I promised I would protect her. That nothing back would happen to her. It was over. I thought it was over. No more tests. No more experiments.  
I reach forward and grab the nearest scientist’s neck, snapping it. The next closest I grab by his lab coat, opening and closing a freezer door against his skull. I feel the bones crunch as his head caves in and my feet are splattered with a pinkish white. I turn and see the other scientists. They can’t do this anymore. They can’t keep hurting her. I pull out my guns, one in each hand, and fire. They will not touch her. Their bodies crumple to the ground around me, none having a chance to run towards the exit.  
I turn towards the door they had been gathered around and see the woman is dead. And it is not Yelena. The woman’s hair is bleach blonde, unnaturally so. She is tall and lanky, her limbs splayed out. There are track marks on her arms and her body is littered with wounds. But Yelena. Where did she go? Where is she? There is a creak behind me. I spin around, gun raised. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. The figure walks towards me, his hands raised.  
“Nat, it’s okay. It’s done. You can lower the gun,” Nat? I move my eyes across the room. This doesn’t look like the testing area. I think that is Clint walking towards me. Were we on a assignment? Are we still? “Natasha, the mission is over,” He takes the gun from my hands, my grip loosening, arms dropping down. I vaguely recognize the sensation of his arm going across my shoulders. I am sitting in a chair. He is crouched down in front of me, holding my knees. I blink, looking around the room. The carnage. Unarmed scientists. I killed two dozen unarmed people.  
“I,” I trail off, unsure what to say. His gaze holds nothing but sympathy and concern.  
“Let’s get going, Laura is going to be pissed if we’re late for Cooper’s first birthday,”  
“I had my gun on you,” I stammer out.  
“You didn’t shoot me,”  
“But I could have. And look at all this death. What kind of person does _that_ without even thinking,” I gesture in the direction of the skull I smashed, my hand shaking. Open and closing the steel door. Looking back, it felt similar to smashing a pumpkin. I feel sick. “This was so stupid, to think I could change, to think I could be good,”  
“Nat,”  
“I’ll never be more than what they made me.” I hold my bloodied hands to my chest, “I thought they had her. I saw the blonde hair. I thought they found her. But we aren’t in the Red Room?” I ask for confirmation.  
“Yelena isn't here Nat. We’re in Cuba, on a mission.” The puzzle pieces fall into place.  
“You were looking for survivors,” He won’t meet my eyes. The woman I failed to save. She was the last one. And I failed. I killed her.  
“It’s my fault she’s dead. I should have been faster. I shouldn’t have watched the room. I should have checked immediately to see if they were running tests. Ten seconds, what if I had been ten seconds faster? She would be alive. This is all my fault.”  
“Natasha, stop. Whatever happened to her took longer than ten seconds. It isn’t your fault that she died.  
“I killed her. I almost killed you. How could I do that?”  
“I need you to stay with me, Nat. Okay?”  
“I cannot be someone’s friend. It was stupid for me to try,” I think of Madame B’s words echoing in my head, “It was foolish of you to treat me as anything else, anything other than a weapon.”  
“Your finger slipped off the trigger as soon as you saw me, even if you didn’t consciously know it was me. I knew you weren’t going to hurt me. I trust you.” He pulls me up out of the office chair. I look over to the contained room. “We don’t know what she was exposed to, Nat. We can’t bury her or anything. Our job was to look for survivors and do recon. We did that. The team from Puerto Rico will be here soon. They will take care of everything.”  
“Why didn’t she survive their tests, but I did?”  
“We don’t know what they did to her. But it is lucky for me, and for a whole lot of other people, that you did.”

* * *

I’m benched for a month. This had been a bad slip. The others were negligible, but this could not be ignored. Clint tries to get me to go to therapy again, a nonstarter. But he still trusts me, for some godforsaken reason. It makes no sense to me why he would trust someone that is so volatile and dangerous.  
Nevertheless, I sit across from him in the cafeteria. After ten agonizing minutes, I managed to pick out a sandwich. They didn’t have my usual. Clint was annoyingly patient as I stood in front off the basket of saran wrapped sandwiches.  
“Nat, you good?”  
“Fine,” I take a sip of my water, feeling tense. Maria sits down beside me, Sharon next to Clint.  
“So, Natasha, rumor is that you have the best ranking among all the agents, even better than Maria’s.” I nod, chewing my sandwich. “Zero civilian casualties,” I reach for my water, the food getting caught in my throat. Technically, she didn’t count. They said she has been dying for hours when I showed up. I was just privileged enough to be there for her final moments. No one could have saved her. “You have been on at least twenty missions, that is amazing.”  
“Thank you. I have heard you’re very good as well,” I hadn’t, but that seemed like something I am supposed to say.  
“Really? That is awesome, thanks. Got a lot to live up to with the family name.” Her phone beeps. “Got to run, I will see you guys later,” The agent flashes a bright smile and runs off.  
“You know, Sharon wants to be your friend,” Maria looks to me.  
“Why?”  
“I honestly have no idea,” She takes my bag of chips.  
“She is your age, you are the youngest two agents here. I know you made that up about hearing she is good, but she really is. Almost as good of a shot as me.”  
“I’ll keep her in mind if I ever need a new partner,” I put down my sandwich. Somehow, the bread here is always so dry, it is like eating sawdust.  
“I can’t imagine anyone else putting up with your jokes during the missions.”  
“Natasha jokes during missions?” Maria looks at me in disbelief.  
“I do not. He is projecting. You’ve listened to our coms. Any time I make a joke, it is responding to something stupid you did! Like firing at a weightbearing beam,”  
The laughter dies down soon after as it gets closer to one o’clock. Maria stands up from the table.  
“Barton, I’ll see you upstairs in fifteen,” He nods to her and she heads out, leaving us alone.  
“Are you going to be okay?”  
“I was on my own for twenty-years, Clint. I can handle two weeks.”  
“Take care of Laura for me, okay?”   
“She is the last person who needs taking care of,”  
“I know, but sometimes, even when you don’t need it, it is nice to have someone else take care of you.” He gathers up the trash from his lunch. “Don’t be a recluse either. Go out and explore the city, please. Think of it as a paid vacation.”  
“Involuntary time away from work.”  
“Nat,”  
“I’m fine, Clint. Laura, Cooper, and I will have a grand old time.”  
“I’ll be back in time for your first Thanksgiving,”  
“I think Laura would stuff you if you weren’t.” He cracks a smile.  
“So, you’re good?”  
“I’m good. Now get out of here.” He bumps my shoulder on the way out and I give him another smile. If only lying to myself were as easy as lying to my best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter of Volition will be out sometime next week (Probably Monday?) Next chapter will also have a lot of growth for Nat!! (If I titled chapters it would be something like “Natasha Finds a Hobby”)  
> Kindred should have another chapter out tomorrow or Sunday! Thank you all for following along!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I know you all would have preferred an update to Kindred lol, that cliffhanger was evil!! But it was Volition's turn! This chapter is fluffy and sweet, about Yelena and Nat, a bit of a filler chapter for what is coming. I still regret what I did to her in Silenced, but I am not one to undo deaths, so we have to live with it, even if she has become one of my favorite characters. Sigh.  
> Anyways, I hope you are all well and staying healthy! Enjoy!

I pace in my apartment, trying to figure out what to do with this free time. It is driving me crazy. Cooper has a cold, meaning that Laura is unable to go out for lunch or run errands. Maria and Clint are on a mission. I am becoming so desperate, that I considered reaching out to Sharon, only to remember she too is on a mission. Everyone in the world has a purpose but me. I sit down on the floor, slipping into a lotus pose. I need to calm down. No slipping. No panicking. I am okay. Everything is fine. Except that I snapped and killed a bunch of unarmed scientists and thought I was back in the Red Room with Yelena being tortured and I was powerless to stop it as I watched her die choking on her own blood.  
“Sister, if I didn’t know better, I would think you are having an identity crisis,” I open my eyes and see Yelena sitting in front of me, “Since when can _I_ sneak up on _you_?” I pull myself out of the pose and go into the kitchen, returning with two mugs of coffee. “Not vodka?”  
“It is eleven in the morning,”  
“You’re Russian,”  
“No. I am American.”  
“You can be both.” She inspects me, “You are not enjoying our new freedom. It is nice, to be free. There is a song I heard, on Broadway,”  
“You were in New York?”  
“I tell you, enjoying life, Tasha. They say, ‘no one saying do this’ and ‘no one saying be there’, ‘free to run around all day’. We can live our own lives.”  
“I cannot believe you went to a Broadway show. Madame would be horrified.”  
“You see, Natalia! That is your problem!” She slams down her mug, “Sorry, I mean Natasha. I know, you are Natasha now.” She pats my hand and I cannot tell if it is patronizing or genuine. “You don’t even have to kill anymore. Me? I like killing. You do not.”  
“Why are you here, Yelena?”  
“Clint text me. He worries.”  
“You and Clint text?” I tilt my head, trying to imagine it.  
“We send each other pictures of cats during missions. Cats are always in wrong places at wrong time, much like your stupid American.” She stands up and brushes off her pants. “Come, we are going to find you a hobby. Or at least something to keep your brain busy. You were always too smart for your own good.”  
I change into fresh clothes and lend her some of mine. She seems to think it is fine to wear combat gear to go shopping. I can only imagine what she wore to the _Lion King_.  
“This your car?” She smiles at the Porsche. “A Spyder? You do have a sense of humor.”  
“Yes, I know. Great sense of irony.”  
“It is like the Widow Mobile,” she grins, sliding into the passenger seat. “I have found other hobbies too. Not just killing and showtunes. I tried knitting. And pottery.”  
“How did those go?” I ask, casting an amused glance at her.

“Horrible. But the point is that we can do whatever we want. You just trade one organization for another. What happens if this one is evil too? Then what? What do you do? Found own organization?”  
“I don’t know. I have to trust that they are good.”  
“Trust? Trust is for children. Only things you can trust are yourself and a Makarov PM.”  
“I use a Glock 26 now,” She snorts, but then slips into silence for a few moments.  
“Do you trust me, Tasha?”  
“About as far as I can throw you,”  
“That is too much, you can throw me far,” she teases. “You are right not to trust me. I do not trust you. But I do not want you dead.”  
“I don’t want you dead either.”  
“Good, then it is settled. We find you a hobby.”  
“How did you mind go from not wanting me dead to getting me a hobby? Where is the logic in that?” I pull off at the mall. “Have you been to a mall yet?”  
“Of course,” she huffs, climbing out of the car. As we step inside, it becomes immediately obvious that she had lied. Her eyes turn into large disks, looking around. However, rather than my first instinct of being overwhelmed, she seems thrilled.  
“How long have you been in America, Lena?”  
“Two days. Clint call and I fly from Sokovia. Bad things happening there. I tried to stop them. Something is off.”  
“They are having a civil war, right?” She nods, her frown deepening. “I am flattered that you flew halfway around the world just to see me.”  
“And Broadway. After you, I am going to Hollywood.” She tries on a pair of oversized sunglasses from a stand.  
“Oh, are you going to be an actress?” I muse, looking down at the phone cases.  
“I am a master of deception already.” She shrugs, putting the sunglasses back. “I want new boots,” I lead her into Nordstrom and watch as she tries on what seems like hundreds of shoes.  
“How can you just make decisions like that?” I frown as she walks away with just two pairs of shoes. Jealousy slips into my voice and I force it down. “Do you want to get something to eat?”  
“You aren’t hungry. Come on, I promised to find you a hobby.” She pulls me out of the store. “Tasha, don’t feel bad.” Her tone is uncharacteristically kind, and her expression matches. “They play with you more. You are the reason I can do this. You saved me. If I went through what you did, I wouldn’t be able to decide what to wear in the morning.”  
We go into a Discovery Store and promptly turn around, not at all impressed with the science experiments. The music store is a bust as well. Yelena pointing out that my apartment does not have the space or the acoustics for a grand piano.  
“Yelena, I greatly appreciate the effort you are putting into this, but it seems pointless. We can get an early dinner, maybe go to a movie,”  
“We will continue the search tomorrow. You are not completely hopeless. Only a little,”  
I roll my eyes and we head into a small town that Yelena had read had amazing barbeque. She had also read that it, and milkshakes, are an essential part of the American experience.  
“I already had pizza in New York. Now we try next American meal. Then fried chicken. And cranberry sauce.”  
“Whatever you want,” I laugh. We are walking through the little town square when we come across a bookstore. The storefront is barely wider than the length of a car. She inspects me, taking me apart like a mark.  
“You want to go in.”  
Yelena pulls open the old wooden door and a bell chimes, announcing us. A little old lady sits behind the counter, a book in hand. On the counter is a mug of tea and a black cat, inspecting us with bright green eyes. I walk through the aisles, running my hands along the spines.  
“Do you have any recommendations for someone who is new to literature?” Yelena asks, trying her best at an American accent. “It is for my sister. Preferably something not too murdery,” She laughs, transforming from a serious assassin to a vapid twenty-year-old girl. The old woman rises from her stool and looks at me, much in the same way Yelena was moments ago.  
“How many books are you looking for?”  
“She’ll take however many you recommend,” Yelena shoots a winning smile. The older woman beckons me, and I follow, looking back at Yelena who has preoccupied herself with the cat. “Have you read any Jane Austen?” I shake my head. “What have you read?” She picks a basket off the floor and hands it to me, placing in a boxed set of novels.  
“ _Lord of the Flies, Great Expectations, Heart of Darkness, Dante’s Inferno, Animal Farm, the Road,_ ” I pause for a moment, “All major religious texts. There’s more, it will take me a moment to think of them,”  
“I think I have an idea of what you have been exposed to. Well read, but not well lived. Loved.” She walks over to another shelf. I see now that they are not organized by the Dewey decimal system, title, genre, or author. It seems to be by her own heart’s content. “ _Don Quixote_ , the first modern novel. Considered one of the greatest works of all time. I am assuming you have read Greek and Roman philosophy?”  
“Yes, ma’am.”  
“God, don’t call me ma’am. It’s Sylvia.” She continues through the aisles, piling on books.  
“How do you know I will read all these books?” I look down. She has handed me at least twenty.  
“You look like someone who could use an escape from the world.” She brings me back towards the front. “Shakespeare said, ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’ I say, literature is the food of humanity.” She takes the basket from my arms with surprising strength from such a frail woman, “Pen is mightier than the sword and all that jazz.” I look over and see my little assassin cradling the cat like a baby.  
“What is her name?”  
“That is Missy, short for Missile.” Yelena’s face lights up.  
“I have never heard a better name.”  
“My late husband named her. We were both in World War II, it is where we met.”  
“I am sorry for your loss,”  
“He lived a long, happy life with me. That is more than he could have ever hoped for.” She finishes ringing me up and I notice she has given me a steep discount. “Enjoy the books. There are always more when you need them.” We put the books in my trunk and go into the restaurant that Yelena had us drive out here for.  
“I liked her. And her cat. You should get a cat.”  
“I am not getting a cat. I am never home.”  
“Yes, it would be cruel subject a cat to the misfortune of being under your care. I saw the dead houseplant.”  
“Laura thought it would brighten the place up,” I defend.  
“Speaking of, you are buying a bedroom set for your guestroom.”  
“Why?” I look up from the menu.  
“For when you have guests.”  
“Yelena, is this your way of telling me you want to stay with me?” I smile at her.  
“Stop it, Tasha.” She looks back down at her menu, flustered.  
“I would be happy to have you stay with me. And I am sure that Clint and Laura would love to have you for Thanksgiving if you plan on staying that long.”  
“I don’t know. I will have to see what I am doing.” She sniffs. I allow her to keep her dignity, and smile behind my menu.  
Thanksgiving is a roaring success. Though I can do nothing in the kitchen but chop vegetables, Laura is happy to have company. Yelena proves to be even more useless than me, choosing instead to learn the rules of football with Clint. Cooper sports a pilgrim onesie and throws mashed potatoes across the dining table. Coulson joins us for dessert, and he brought apple pie that my sister devours. His attempts to recruit Yelena are once again for naught, and end with her brandishing a knife.  
“And you thought I was violent,” I look over to Clint, smugly.  
Yelena disappears the next day, and I was frankly surprised to see her stay for the two weeks she did. She refused to go anywhere near Cooper, the only true sign she is bothered by what she is.  
Clint and I go on a mission in California, and despite her saying that is her next destination, she makes no appearance. Clint gets shot, and I have to remove the bullet in a hotel room, using a bottle of vodka to sterilize. Thankfully, he got shot on our last day of work before vacation, so no additional time at work will be lost. Had I not started to pull him up to the rafters, the bullet would be lodged into his skull.  
Yelena shows up on Christmas morning at the door of the Barton apartment. This is huge progress for her, knocking rather than breaking and entering. She empties out of duffel bag of presents, looking bashful.  
It is with great caution that she presents a polar bear stuffed animal to Cooper, who plays with it happily.  
“You didn’t have to get us presents, Yelena. That is very thoughtful,” Laura holds up her new apron and oven mitt set. Yelena also purchased a new first aid kit for them. For Clint, a cat calendar and new bow polish.  
“Here,” She drops the box in my lap. It is perfectly wrapped in shiny red paper with a green bow. I had already given her my Christmas present, a Glock 26. But this box is much to light to be a gun. Perhaps new throwing knives. I pull off the paper and open up the box.  
A pair of pale pink ballet slippers sit in white tissue paper. My name is embroidered on the side.  
“These are beautiful, thank you.”  
“Went to France to get them, is why I left.” she replies gruffly. I nudge her shoulder he she smiles. “Can we add alcohol to this hot chocolate?”  
“Of course. What are the holidays without alcohol?” Clint rises from the couch, wincing.  
“No, none for you. Doctor said not with your meds.” Laura scolds, gesturing to his wound. Clint grumbles under his breath but relents.  
“You’re the boss.”  
That evening, Yelena and I settle onto the couch in my apartment. _Rudolph_ plays on the TV and we each have a glass of mulled wine.  
“Thank you for the slippers, they are a wonderful gift. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”  
“I wanted to. You do a lot for me, always have. I know you have been clearing my trails. I got sloppy on purpose last week. Everything was gone.” I blush at being caught. “You’re a good sister.”  
“I love you, Yelena.” She nods, pouring us each another mug of wine. The next Christmas film comes on and I begin to regret my lack of a Christmas tree. As we head to bed a few hours later, just before the guestroom door clicks shut, I hear a shy murmur,  
“I love you too, Tasha,”  
Had I known that this was the last time we would ever truly speak, I would have said so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this chapter!  
> I know Yelena has become a favorite of many of you, so this was a homage to her! I am sorry for what is coming. And if you have been keeping a timeline, (I literally have it in a spreadsheet now because it was becoming so complicated to have TWELVE YEARS planned out in my head lol) 2008 is a really bad year for Nat...  
> Any who, hope to update Kindred by tomorrow evening  
> I will be seeing my family this weekend for the first time since the early February, so I will not post my usual two chapters, though I hope to eek out one! Thank you all for following along and for your comments, each one is so appreciated!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I’m back from vacation (well I’m waiting for my Uber home from the airport) and I wanted to post this new chapter! Sorry for the formatting issues, I’m pasting from my notes! Thank you al for following along and I also want to apologize in advance!  
> I will be back to my normal posting speed this week and should have an update for Kindred by Thursday at the latest!

“You’re late,” I look over a Clint from my spot in the SHIELD issue car, a black Charger.  
“You know how hard it was to get Maria to agree to babysit Cooper? I had to offer to do her paperwork for a week. Laura and I haven’t been on a date since October,”

“Is that half a baked potato?” I look at the open foil package in his hand.

“It was all I thought to grab,” 

“You could have brought the whole potato,”

“I had already cut it in half,” 

“We’re on a stakeout at the docks, they are expecting a big shipment in tonight from Senegal.” 

“No concept for date night.”

“No concept for on-call,”

“Okay, fine,” he takes a bite of the potato, “Want some?”

“No,” I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh. “How did you get by without a partner?”

“Barely. And with intense supervision. Even then, I managed to recruit ruthless assassins and turn them into softhearted,”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you want to keep your tongue,”

“I missed missions with you, Nat.” 

“We had one a few days before Christmas,”

“I know, but then I was benched for an extra week. It seems like we haven’t worked since last year.” I roll my eyes. 

“It is late January, you can’t make that joke anymore.” He begins to fiddle with the radio, trying to find the 80’s Hits station. I slap his hand away with a glare. “We’re working,”

“Work can have music,” 

“It is a distraction, and you are enough of one already,” Clint begins to make a sound of protest when we pull into the shipping yard. 

I park the car at the docks and pull out a thermos and two mugs.

“You see, I brought two cups. Because I’m a good friend like that.” I nod to his potato.

“What is this shipment even for?” He takes the coffee gratefully. 

“Drugs. Did you read the email?”

“I left my date for drugs?” I ignore him and move my attention back to the water. Barges come and go until finally, after four hours, I spot ours. With the hired help waiting at the dock, it is easy to spot. I nod to Clint who climbs out of the car, grabbing his bow from the backseat. I send a text to the STRIKE team to alert them and scale a nearby shipping container. 

“Agent Romanoff, do you copy?” Clint asks. 

“Copy. Strike is 20 minutes out.”

“We have maybe ten,” I pull out my binoculars and see Clint is right, they are starting to unload. “I’ll send in a flash bang, you do your thing?” 

“Roger that,” I flex my shoulders, feeling adrenaline coursing through me. The spotlight overhead sweeps briefly over our targets. 

I watch Clint load his bow and I perch on the edge of the shipping container, ready to jump. The arrow soars through the air. When it makes contact with the ground, the light is blinding, especially in the dark of night. I launch myself off the metal box and land on the ground below. With my new Widow’s bites set to stun, I move through the stunned group quickly, before they orient themselves once more. After two minutes, I have all ten guards tied up, and the boss handcuffed to a pipe. Clint jumps down beside me. 

“Good work,” I am about to reply when there is the echoing of quick, heavy footsteps. 

“What the fuck is this?” Rumlow roars, entering the scene. 

“You were taking too long. We had to act fast,” Clint defends. 

“Without authorization,” He looks to me, I meet his gaze unflinchingly.

“Don’t get mad at her for doing your job better than you,” 

“We’re just lucky they are all still alive, or do you only kill people who are unarmed?” Rollins sneers. 

“Hows the arm?” 

“Clint,” I hiss in warning. I look back to the STRIKE team, “In the future, we will be sure to let them get away. Sorry for any confusion on our part,” I nod dutifully and grab Clint. 

“How are you so calm when they trash you like that? It isn’t right,”

“If them calling me names and pointing out my mistakes is the worst they can do, I am happy to let them.”

“No, you shouldn’t be happy to,”

“I’m not literally happy,” I shoot back, “But my old coworkers used to try to kill me in my sleep so,” 

“I will never like how cavalier you are about that,”

“You used to sleep on a bale of hay,” I snap. 

“Okay, okay,” he throws up his hands in surrender before I can fire any more ammunition. We get into the car, and he offers me the remaining bit of his potato, “Truce?” I roll my eyes.

“I think the Dairy Queen up the road is open, come on. My treat.”

* * *

Maria heads out of my apartment, Thursday night poker coming to a close. I have started letting either her or Clint win sometimes, it seems as though they enjoy the game more. If either have noticed I am losing on purpose, neither have given any indication. 

Clint is washing out the salsa bowl in the sink when my phone starts to ring. 

“Yelena?”

“Natasha, I need you,” she switches between English and Russian, trailing off mid sentence before starting another. They make little sense, topics ranging from a ballet recital to a mission back into 2004. 

“Where are you?” I finally get a word in edgewise and write down the coordinates. “I’ll be there ASAP, okay? Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay,” 

“Nat,”

“She was crying,” I turn to Clint. “She hasn’t cried since she snapped her femur when she was eight.” 

“I’ll ask Fury if we can borrow a jet,” Clint pulls out his phone, “We’ll help her, Nat. Whatever is happening.” 

Five hours later, we are landing at the coordinates Yelena gave me. It is a small cabin in the Russian wilderness. We are forced to land nearly a half hour hike away, and make our way through the dense forest. The cold and snow has left Clint grumbling, but he withholds any sarcastic remarks. I knock on the door, and it whips open. Yelena is standing there in her tactical gear, her face blotchy from crying. She pulls me into the house and Clint follows behind. 

“Lena?”

“So much,” she gasps, “So much red,”

“Whatever happened, we can help. Nothing’s made the news. I’m sure we can fix it,” I try and soothe.

“I remember everything, Tasha!” She cries, rocking on her heels. My heart stops. “I was searching for information, to make sure Ivan is dead. I found worse.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it isn’t that bad,” I console. 

“It is my fault!” She cries, “I remember everything. I feel everything!” Her broken wailing fills the one room cottage, “My fault you will never be mother, my fault, Natalia! No, Tasha, sorry,” she shakes her head, “You Tasha,” she smacks her head, as if trying to righten her train of thought, “All my fault,”

“What do you mean?” I ask carefully, Yelena’s grip with reality is clearly slipping.

“I killed her! I didn’t know, she was my mother, I didn’t know,” I look over to Clint who has begun a pot of tea. He has started to keep chamomile in his go bag, as it tends to be able to bring me down. Hopefully, it was have the same effect on my sister. “My mother was Madame B’s daughter, she turned her own daughter into a Widow! I come from mission, birth control failed. Then, at ten, they have me kill her. I kill my mother, Tasha! Then they start sterilizing. Adelina, they tell her kill me or I kill her. She refused to kill me. I not know, she tell me as she die under my blade. Bleeding out. They take away. But I remember now! I kill my mother,” She wails, throwing herself into my arms. It is so unlike her, and I resist the urge to throw her off. I remember what she said, about feeling everything. 

“Yelena, you didn’t know. You were just a kid,” I rub my hand on her back, hopefully the action is soothing.

“I kill my own mother, I’m monster,” 

“No, you aren’t.” I quickly shut down the thought. Clint walks over with a pot of tea and three bowls. Apparently, the cabin lacks mugs. “When did this happen? When did you find out?”

“Yesterday, I call you at first memory. They sent me to kill you, when you defected. I refused, they took. No memory of disobedience allowed. I disobey three tries, then they give up.” 

“You ignored orders?” She nods against my shirt. “Then more, and come faster.” I think of how Madame B let Yelena live, even after I befriended her. Why she was one of her favorites. Her own flesh and blood. But that clearly meant little to her, as she put her daughter and granddaughter against each other when Yelena was only ten. I vaguely remember Adelina, she was in her early thirties, old for a Widow. One of the best. Ruthless, especially on trainees. She never gave an indication of being anything more than one of us.

My mind wanders to the file, with I formation regarding the blocks. Of the Winter Soldier. 

“Yelena,” My sister raises her head from my chest. “You have read what happens when the blocks fall,” 

“They have lied to us about everything else. They lie about this too. She die too quick.” I push down my urge to defend Madame B. She was horrible, evil. But she also raised me. No. She was the devil incarnate. I hand Yelena a bowl of tea. 

“I wish I could have let you kill her.” I tell her sympathetically. “Perhaps some sleep would help?” She nods tiredly. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Three days,” Her blonde hair hangs limply around her shoulders, her skin sallow. I braid it back quickly and drag her over to the cot. She falls into it gratefully. “Thank you for coming, Tasha.” 

“Always, Lena,” 

“If it is true, kill me,” she whispers desperately, clinging to my sweater. “Don’t let me become like him.” Her large eyes bear into mine. 

“Sleep well,” I pull the blanket up and over she shaking frame before heading to the couch. 

“Is she going to be okay?” Clint signs. 

“I don’t know. I hope so,” I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling myself drift off to sleep. 

I wake up to Clint screaming my name. Yelena is brandishing a knife, approaching with an obvious intent. 

“Yelena! That’s Clint,” She turns to face me, her eyes narrowing. I know the look. It is the same as the Winter Soldier. She runs at me with lightning speed, her knife going for my carotid artery. I break her wrist, snatching the knife, and she retreats in pain. “This isn’t you, I know you’re in there,” I coach, trying to get through to her. However, all I have managed to do is piss her off. Her cold eyes pick me apart. 

“Silly Natalia, always seeing the good in people. Everyone can be saved. Everyone is worthy. A lie you tell yourself. If anyone can be saved, that means you can be too.” Her eyes glint, “I remember everything, the things you were forced to forgot. I can make you remember too. See yourself for what you really are. No more playing pretend,” While she had her attention on me, Clint had gathered our stuff. If we can restrain her, perhaps at SHIELD they can help. Put the blocks back up.

“This isn’t you, Yelena.”

“Don’t you see? This is exactly who we are, what we are.” She ignores her a broken wrist, languidly strolling around the room. Toying with us. Like a predator playing with its prey.

“We can help you, take the memories away,”

“This is the most me I have ever been, you won’t deprive me of that, sister.” She reaches behind her back and pulls out a gun. The glock 26. “Move.” she commands. I refuse, blocking her path to the door. The gun fires. I look down in shock as blood begins to soak my abdomen. She missed anything important. This was a warning shot. The last bit of Yelena. Clint rushes to me, while Yelena slips out into the Russian wilderness. 

“Natasha,”

“I’m fine. We have to stop her,” I shred one of the sheets and tie it around my stomach before pulling on my coat. 

“You’re bleeding, a lot,” 

“We have to stop her Clint, I promised her,” I ignore the pain radiating through my body and run out the door. Yelena’s tracks are easy enough to follow in the snow, as she does nothing to hide them. The real her would never be so careless. She would be scaling the trees. 

“Nat, please, let’s stitch you up, then go after her.” I push through the pain, continuing to trudge through the snow. Blood has begun to soak through my parka. The farther we get from the cabin, the denser then woods become. The full moon serves as our only source of light, as flashlights would give us away. Voices begin to echo out into the night. I had been so focused on helping Yelena, I had forgotten to cover her tracks from the past few days, I hadn’t even checked to see where those files were from. And now, it seems the owners are here. I hear the cock of a gun and pull Clint down into the snow. A bullet imbeds itself into the tree behind us. There must be at least twenty people in this forest. 

“I found her,” a voice calls out. Yelena fires and three men drop to the ground. One more screams in pain. We reach the edge of a clearing, where Yelena is surrounded. The men move in and she fired quickly, panicked. She runs out of bullets. Clint’s bow is back on the quinjet, as are my other weapons. We only have a handgun each, neither of us anticipating this turn of events. I begin to climb the tree next to me. My vision doubled as the blood loss begins to get to me. I drip below, dark spots splattering the pristine snow. Clint tries to sign something to me, but it is impossible to make out in the dark. I reach a limb branching out nearly fifteen feet of the ground. The bloody rag has slid off the wound and settled at my waist. The blood is sticky and begins to itch my skin as it dries. The pain has faded into the background. Yelena’s eyes sweep the trees and land on me. In a moment of clarity, she gives a subtle nod and raises her hands in surrender. I grip onto the branch with one hand, feeling my balance teeter. The gun weighs heavily in my right. 

“I love you, Yelena.” I fire, the bullet lodging in her heart as my hand slips, missing her head. She staggers back, falling to the ground. The men are yelling, and firing blindly into the trees. A bullet strikes my shoulder and my grip on the tree disappears. 

“GSW to stomach and shoulder, we should be arriving in two hours. Likely broken bones as well, she fell almost twenty feet,” 

“Yelena,” I turn to Clint. “We have to go get her,” 

“See you in 120,” he hangs up the phone and turns to me.

“Have to go back,” 

“Nat, she’s gone.”

“Bury her,” 

“We can’t go back, those men took her, I barely got you back in time. You passed out as soon as we got on the jet.” 

“No, we have to go back,” I struggle to sit up as pain radiates through my body. “We can’t leave her, I can’t leave her. I promised to protect her,” Hot tears begin to roll down my cheeks

“You saved her from those men, Nat. From whatever they would have done to her.”

“I killed her, she was my sister. I love her,” 

“I know,” he squeezes my uninjured shoulder.

“I loved her,” I breathe, feeling the warmth of unconsciousness embrace me once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had a wonderful week! Here is a fun and lighthearted chapter featuring Nat being a sarcastic badass. I hope you all enjoy!! As always, comments are always welcome!!  
> Also!! I posted a new chapter of Kindred yesterday!  
> Another Kindred will be up (hopefully) by Saturday night!  
> Thank you!!!

“Natasha, slow down,” Clint huffs behind. I slide to a stop, turning back to look at my partner.  
“What if you hurried up?” I tease, “You’re slow,”  
“Thanks,” he reaches me, irritated. “Why do you bother running with me if you’re slowing yourself down or racing ahead?”  
“I like spending time with you,” I frown, “Do you not want me to run with you? Have you wanted to run alone this whole time? I’m sorry if I have been invading your alone time,”  
“No, it’s not that. Sorry, I’m being a bit of an ass this morning, aren’t I?” he sighs. I shrug, bending down to fix the tie on my sneaker. “Nat, please don’t shut me out. I’m sorry. You’re just a superhero, you know? And I’m just me,”  
“I would hardly call me a superhero,”  
“You can run a mile in three minutes and thirty-two seconds,”  
“That is only eleven seconds faster than the record holder,”  
“I’m trying to make up for being a jerk,”  
“Then please don’t bring up the fact that I am a science experiment,” I snap.  
“You okay?”  
“Fine.” I look over at him, “Ready to start up again?” I don’t wait for an answer and continue our jog. When we round the corner of our block, Clint grabs my arm. I yank it back, glaring at him. He throws up his arms in surrender.  
“It’s only been a month, you’re allowed to not be okay.”  
“I told you I am fine.”  
“You killed your sister, Tash. That doesn’t leave someone feeling _fine_.”  
“I have been prepared to kill her my whole life. She lived longer than I expected,”  
“You don’t mean that.” No. I don’t. But I hope if I tell myself that lie enough times, that it will become the truth.  
“I don’t know if you have noticed, Barton, but I am an assassin whose capacity for emotion is extremely limited. Don’t make me into something I’m not.”  
“Natasha,”  
“I will be driving alone today,” I head up the steps, “I will see you at work.”  
I run into my apartment, trying not to breakdown. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. I promised to protect her, to take care of her. The smallest Widow. She had more personality than all of us combined, I tried so hard to make sure she could be a person. Only for the serum to take it away. A scream of frustration builds up in my chest, and my fist flies into the wall. I punched straight through. I feel no better than I did before.  
“Nat,” There is banging on my door. I step out in jeans and my SHIELD windbreaker.  
“I told you I am driving today,”  
“Well I’m riding shotgun.”  
“You are incorrigible,”  
“That’s my middle name,” He flashes me a smile.  
I drive a little more recklessly than normal; punishment for denying me alone time. Clint acts as though nothing is wrong, fiddling with the radio as he always does when he is in my car.  
We pull up to the triskelion and head up into Fury’s office, expecting to only see Hill, Coulson, and Fury himself. Clint stiffens when he sees half the strike team. Rumlow, Rollins, and Ward seem thrilled to be there. They all sit with their arms crossed; jaws clenched.  
“Fury, what’s going on?” Clint asks, sliding into the second to last seat. That leaves one between him and Hill. He sat next to Ward, trying to protect me. If we were in private, I would chew him out. I don’t need to be protected by anyone. Instead, I take my seat.  
“Thank you for joining us,”  
“We are two minutes early,” he argues.  
“Two minutes early is three minutes late.” Coulson reminds him.  
“Why are we here?” Rumlow asks, ending the banter that Clint enjoys so much.  
“The six of you are going on a mission,”  
“A mission? With her?” Rollins jabs a finger at me. “She broke my arm!”  
“You provoked her,” Maria counters.  
“I think she’s a liability to the team,” Rumlow slams his fist on the table.  
“That’s sweet that you think about me, Brock. You don’t cross my mind at all,” I smile at him demurely. Maria and Clint choke back laughs. I blink innocently.  
“I am a senior officer,” her warns.  
“My apologies, _sir_. I meant to say, I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what you think about me.” Rumlow’s hand drifts under the table, obviously reaching for his gun. I keep the sweet smile, daring him.  
“I think that is enough,” the director says diplomatically. It is obvious to both me and Rumlow that I was not scolded. “You are going to be serving as security for the World Security Council at their summit next week. They are meeting with leaders in both the military and the weapons industry. You will work as a team. Do I make myself clear?”  
“Yes sir,” we all echo.  
“Good. You will find mission briefings in your email. I expect you to know them inside and out. This is a high-risk event. You are dismissed.”  
“Natasha,” Clint pulls me aside when we get into the hall.  
“Yes?”  
“That was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.”  
“I do not answer to him. He should remember that.” I stretch, “Do you want to head up to the roof to finish paperwork with me?”  
“As if you even need to ask,” 

I sit beside Clint on the jet, reading one of the books I picked up at the bookstore Yelena and I had gone to. This was my second visit, having finished all of the others before Christmas. I don’t know if I can go a third time now that Yelena is gone.  
“You know, I have some books I could lend you,” Clint offers, leaning down to read the page I am on.  
“I’ve seen your books, I’m all set,” I laugh.  
“Oh, come on! Is Detective Rousseau too low-brow for the mighty Black Widow?”  
“It is an anthropomorphic dog detective,”  
“Just like the classic piece of Russian-”  
“Will you two shut up? Some of us are actually trying to work,” Rollins yells to the back of the plane. Clint shoots me a wild grin and switches to signing. Though I regret teaching it to him, as I now have to listen to him talk about his favorite series.  
“And they are thinking of turning it into a movie,” He finishes off as we land. This was the most torturous flight to London that I could have imagined.  
“I still don’t understand how these are books made for adults,”  
“You just won’t get it until you read it.”  
“That will never happen.”  
We disembark from the jet and head over to the armored town cars that await us. We arrive at the hotel where the council is staying. Coulson looks us over.  
“Should I expect any problems?”  
“No sir,” Maria looks at the five of us. She has the highest clearance here, other than Coulson, making her second in command.  
“Barton, Rumlow?”  
“No problems.” Clint affirms. Rumlow grunts in agreement.  
“You know, this is pretty nice hotel. I bet the room service is great,” Ward offers.  
“Yes. Just remember the name of the movie you rent on pay per view will be on the bill Fury receives,” I shoulder my duffel bag, “And don’t let your hand cramp up. You may actually have to use your gun on this mission.” I spin away, walking to Clint. “Come on, let’s go to our room.”  
“Nat,”  
“What?”  
“You okay?”  
“Fine.”  
“You just pretty much chopped of Ward’s manhood.”  
“Does he not deserve it?”  
“No, no. He definitely does. Actively encourage you turning down people who want to take advantage of you,” Clint corrects himself quickly.  
“Then what?”  
“I’m just worried. Since Yelena died, you’ve been a little,”  
“What?”  
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” I narrow my eyes but let it go.  
“I am looking forward to meeting the security council,” I slide our room key through the door.  
“Really? They are just a bunch of politicians.”  
“If it wasn’t for them agreeing I could be an asset, I’d have a bullet in my head and be at the bottom of the ocean, courtesy of SHIELD.”  
“Yeah, I guess that aren’t all bad. I had this gig two years ago though, it is so boring.”  
“I don’t get bored.” I hang up my vest, “Only boring people get bored.”  
“I am not boring!”

Clint changes into clothes to match the rest of the security at the event, while I change into a blazer with a matching skirt, pulling on my heels. It is always interesting to look at myself in the mirror in a wig. Being a brunette truly doesn’t suit me, but it does make blending in easier.  
“It sucks that you have to wear that,”  
“I’m undercover,” I shrug, “And its better than that horrible neon dress I had to wear last week. Not to mention how bad those drugs tasted,”  
“You gave Coulson a heart attack taking those.”  
“They needed proof I wasn’t dirty. I was barely impaired.”  
“Still.” He fixes his tie, “Is Maria actual undercover too? Not just ‘security team’ undercover?”  
“No, she’s still on the security team.”  
“But you get saddled with,”  
“Clint, just let me do my job before I stab you with my stiletto.”  
“It wouldn’t be a mission if you didn’t threaten to kill me.” He claps his hands, “We’re in business.”   
“Who have you been assigned?”  
“Singh, you?”  
“Hawley.”  
The elevator brings us down to the lobby, and we head into the conference room. The security council and already there, and I am happy to see we beat the Strike Team.  
“Agent Romanoff meet Councilwoman Hawley,” Coulson introduces.  
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Councilwoman. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to be on the right side of history.”  
“Black Widow, the pleasure is mine. I was happy to strong arm the men to get you amnesty.” She looks at her fellow council members.  
“Delta, you’re late.”  
“Elevator broke down.” Rollins huffs. I look over at Clint who is smirking. I don’t even want to know what he did, or when he had the time.  
“Alright, let’s move out.” Coulson announces when the introductions have been finished.  
“Black Widow, it is nice to finally meet you.” A blond man offers me his hand. “Alexander Pierce, driving force behind SHIELD.”  
“Nice to meet you, sir.” I smile at him. Something is off. He wanted me dead. I can tell, it is almost obvious. “I hope you have changed your mind about my joining SHIELD,” His lips draw into a thin line.  
“Who told you that?”  
“No one, sir.” I look up at him.  
“Mind yourself, Natalia Romanova. I granted you life, I can take it away.”  
“Her name is Natasha, Pierce,” Coulson appears beside us. “Romanoff, go tend to Hawley and inform her of your cover.” I nod, despite having already done this. We arrive at the conference center and I stick to Hawley’s side, notepad in hand. It is with extreme annoyance that I learn Rumlow has been assigned to her as well. Hawley will be making a speech, putting her in the line of fire for many possible attacks. We begin to head in when a man stops Hawley. “Who is this?”  
“Nicole Roberts, councilwoman Hawley’s personal assistant,” I say in a posh English accent.  
“Really? Hawley, too much work for you? This and parliament?” His French accent bleeds through.  
“Nicole recently graduated from Oxford and my son introduced us. She has been a superb addition to my team.”  
“Well, then welcome.” The man lets us through. I look to Rumlow who shakes his head. He didn’t see something was off with him? We head into the main room. There are groups of tables and a stage at the front. As Hawley takes her seat, I turn to Rumlow.  
“Something isn’t right about that guy. I am telling you, we should phone it in.”  
“He hasn’t done anything, _Nicole_. Perhaps you should go back to the Councilwoman and continue taking notes.” I take a deep breath and force down my anger, taking my seat beside her.  
“Everything okay, Nicole?”  
“That gentleman who we spoke to when we came in, do you know him well?”  
“We have spoken a handful of times, why?”  
“I don’t trust him,”   
“What does Rumlow say?”  
“That I am worrying over nothing,”  
“Well for my sake, let us hope he is right.”  
The first two hours of the conference go by smoothly. I can imagine Clint is itching to talk to someone about his observations, but he is flying solo. Across the room, I see him and Singh talking to a short Italian man with a goatee and an expensive looking suit.  
“Councilwoman, it is time to prepare for your speech,” Rumlow whispers into Hawley’s ear. She nods and we both rise, walking into the hall and then backstage.  
“I do not have a good feeling about this.”  
“We do not operate on feelings,” Rumlow snaps. “We use intel and data,”  
“Fine, my finely tuned instincts are telling me something isn’t right. Is that phrasing acceptable, _sir_?”  
“You just stay back here and do your job until Hawley is on stage. Then I will do my job. Clear?”  
“Crystal.” I grind my teeth. Hawley looks over at me, her brows knit together. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” I promise her. Even then, for all my bravado in the past week, the idea of disobeying Rumlow’s orders sends a surge of nausea. But Yelena could do it. Yelena did it. It is very possible that it the only reason I am still alive. The stagehand nods to the councilwoman, who then steps out on stage. I stand in the wings, scanning the audience. Rumlow stands in front, stopping anyone from rushing the platform. She begins her speech. I had read through it myself, it is well written, and I was impressed to learn she had done so herself. No speech writer. It is about ensuring that weapons stay in legal channels, something that has become an increasingly severe problem in recent years. Something glints in the crowd.  
I dive forward, knocking Hawley to the ground and covering her with my body, just as a rain of bullets cuts through the curtain, all at eye level. The room fills with screams, but they are background noise. My focus stays steadily on my assignment.  
“Are you okay? Did you get hit?” I fire the questions.  
“No,” she replies after a moment, “Nothing hit me.” I let myself enjoy a sliver of relief, but only that. Though the gun has stopped firing, I wait anxiously for the all-clear. Possible maps of escape begin to form in my head. In the past ten seconds, I have come up four.  
“Nat, I got him.” I climb off Hawley. Her hair is disheveled and one of her heels snapped. Her meticulous suit has become covered in wrinkles.  
“I apologize for tackling you, Councilwoman,”  
“Agent Romanoff, you saved my life.”  
I look and see most of the room has cleared out. The other councilmembers are gone, but the SHIELD team remains. Dead on the floor is the same man I was concerned about. There is a bullet in his head, courtesy of Clint.  
Paramedics come and offer Hawley a blanket and a cup of tea, she waves off both. Coulson heads over to us with the rest of the team.  
“Councilwoman Hawley, I am relieved that you are okay.”  
“Your team is very special, Phil.”  
“We were happy to be of assistance, ma’am.” Rumlow puffs out his chest.  
“No. Not you,” Hawley dresses down the leader of the Delta team instantly. “You ignored a team member’s instincts and belittled her. Had you listened; this situation would have been avoided entirely. You not only endangered my life, but those of everyone who attended this conference. Your leadership skills are poor at best, and you best drop the excessive hubris before it costs someone their life.” She turns to me, “Agent Romanoff, it has been an honor to work with you. Should the need arise, I will happily take your call.”  
She removes her remaining heel, and her real security detail follows her out of the room. Coulson turns to Rumlow, who has ripped off his vest.  
“You’re meeting with Fury when we get back to the States.”  
“Heard.”  
“Nice job, Romanoff.” Coulson adds. “Be back at the hotel in an hour. I want us to be wheels up in two.”

I tuck my legs under myself on the jet, looking out the window. Out of habit, I turn the pages of the book.  
“Nat?”  
“Sorry,” I turn back to him and offer a small smile.  
“Where’s your head at?”  
“I disobeyed direct orders,”  
“Whose?”  
“Rumlow’s. He told me to stay backstage and out of his way. I didn’t.” I think of Yelena. She would be thrilled for me. She would be pulling out a bottle of vodka that she had stashed away somewhere. _Tasha, they do not own you_ , she would say, _You ignore orders, you are insubordinate. Madame would be horrified!_ She would give me her devilish grin and start to tell a tale of her adventures in the world. _I am proud of you, Tasha_.

Clint waits outside of Fury’s office with me. Rumlow is in the middle of week one in his two-week desk duty. He was also given all the paperwork for the mission, which is the best present Fury could ever give the rest of us. Hill looked as though she may actually cheer, before regaining her composure. It is a well-known fact she hates paperwork, even more than Clint. That is a statement in and of itself.  
“Sorry I was a dick last week,” Clint leans back against the couch, “Laura’s parents called.”  
“Everything okay?”  
“No. They are pressuring us about the wedding. They want it to happen soon. They told us that they are getting too old, and they want to see Laura married before they die. They are in their early sixties, it is ridiculous.”  
“So, when’s the date?”  
“Laura told them she wants a September wedding, but that this September is too close. So, we’ve got eighteen months to plan,” He rubs his eyes. “They are just a lot. But hey, they’re going to be family, and the only grandparents that Cooper has.”  
“I’m pretty sure he thinks Phil and Fury are his grandparents too.”  
“Romanoff, I am not old enough to be Barton’s father.” Coulson steps out of Fury’s office.  
“Could have fooled me,” I reply cheekily.  
“Glad to have you in good spirits again,” he says sincerely. I had been a bit curt with everyone following Yelena’s death, but after the conference in London, it is as if I have discovered a new part of me that I didn’t know existed. Someone with agency. Free will. I understand now what Yelena was so excited about, why the world seemed bright and amazing.  
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I bump Clint’s shoulder and nod to our handler before stepping into Fury’s office.  
“Romanoff, sit,” He nods to the chair across from his desk. “Good work in London. Everyone was pleased. The council is reassured by their decision. You have impressed me, Natasha, which is not an easy thing to do.”  
“Thank you, sir.” I remain neutral, but on the inside, I am beaming. It is working. I am becoming better. The red in my ledger is slowly going away. I am becoming more human.  
“Now, I have brought you in to discuss a new mission. It starts two weeks from now and I expect it to be a longer undercover stint, looking at a month. Maybe two.” He opens up a manilla folder in front of him. “Weapons smuggling ring. Hawley wasn’t lying when she said this is becoming a problem.”  
“Where will I be going, sir?”  
“France,” he replies, handing me the folder, “Chantilly, France.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warnings for mentioned/implied rape and suicide***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> I have been avoiding this chapter as it is the most disturbing thing to happen to Nat. It is for this reason that I have decided to skip over the part that was already described in Lost. Because of this, the chapter will not make a ton of since if you have not read Lost (It is chapter 32 if you would like to reread). I just couldn't bring myself to write it again. That being said, the end of this chapter is still extremely disturbing. If you want to skip it, that is completely understandable. The things Natasha says/thinks are upsetting. Please proceed with caution and take care of yourselves!

I read my casefile, bouncing Cooper on my hip. Laura is going over wedding details, passing me the magazine every few minutes for my opinion.  
“You know, two years ago you wouldn’t have been able to do this, even one year.”  
“Hm?” I put down my mug of tea, and Cooper snuggles closer.  
“Give me your opinion on a dress, or a flower arrangement. You do it without thinking now.” I stop going over my case. “Sorry, I didn’t mean,”  
“No, its okay.”  
“I just thought you’d want to know, you really have made a lot of progress, Nat.”  
“I want to know. Thank you, Laura,” I smile kindly at my friend. I don’t think anyone else would have been so patient when their husband brought home a stray Russian assassin. Waiting patiently for thirty minutes as I try to pick a doughnut out of the dozen Clint brought home from Dunkin Donuts. Or an hour and a half picking out a new winter coat. Now, those decisions would take only moments.  
“Chantilly is supposed to be beautiful,” She changes the subject quickly, “When I studied abroad my junior year, I spent a week in France. I had meant to go but we ran out of time,”  
“I’ve spent a lot of time in France, but I’ve never been,”  
“Speaking of going place. On our next trip to Iowa, Clint and I have to tell my parents that he isn’t actually in the FBI,” Laura groans, leaning back in her chair.  
“When’s that?”  
“Whenever you get back from your mission, Clint’s on the extraction team.”  
“Then I’ll try to get done sooner rather than later,”  
“Don’t rush. Please. Seriously,” she laughs, “I’m happy to put off telling them a little longer.” Cooper begins to squirm, and I set him on the ground, where he toddles off to play with his blocks. The polar bear Yelena gave him for Christmas is clutched in his elbow, as it has been for the past three and a half months.  
“Have they met Clint?”  
“Twice.” And by the look on Laura’s face, they were not that best of meetings, “My father asked Clint where he grew up. When he replied the circus, well,”  
“Wait until they meet me,” I flash a dangerous smile.  
“No. Don’t do anything. Jesus Christ, you two goad each other on.”  
“Has Clint asked Phil to be his best man yet?”  
“Nat,” Laura begins, but the door opens and a booming Clint announces that he has brought pizza.  
“You ready for this mission?” He asks, grabbing three plates from the cabinet.   
“I’ve got it down. Weapons distribution disguised as horse racing. Easy.”  
“But you’re going undercover,”  
“Yes,” I stare Clint down. He nods, breaking eye contact.  
“I’ll be staying in France for a few days to make sure everything is settled and that our contact at the police station is solid,” He looks to Laura.  
“I’ll be fine, Clint. Cooper and I will try not to have too much fun without you.”

I sit beside Clint and Fury as Coulson pilots. Clint keeps rubbing his hands together and it is starting to drive me crazy.  
“Clint, your nervous tics, though endearing, are going to be the death on you on this very jet.”  
“Feeling a little tense, Nat?” He replies, though stops fidgeting so much.  
“It seems too obvious. Too easy. I don’t know.” I look over to Fury.  
“We extract you as soon as you witness a deal. He seems to only do them once every month or two. So, it will really be about luck for how long you are there.”  
“Nanette Rhone. Twenty-two years old. Graduated from university last summer with a degree in business. Passion for horses and racing. Started when my father first took me to a race when I was six. In 2004, he took me to the Kentucky Derby. He died a few months later in a car accident.”  
“What were the results?” Fury leans forward.  
“It was the 130th Race. Funny Cide won. His jockey was Jose Santos, trainer Barclay Tagg. Odds of 12.80. Second and third place were Empire Maker and Peace Rules, respectively.”  
“Eighth place?”  
“Ten Cents a Shine. Calvin Borel was his jockey, D Way Lukas trainer. I can name the winner of all one hundred and thirty-three races if you’d like,” I quip cheekily. Fury shakes his head fondly, “And before you can ask, my father was riding in a 1999 black Volkswagen Jetta. He was hit by a navy-blue BMW X5. It was two miles from our house, which is an hour outside of Normandy where he was an accountant. My mother was a stay at home mom but has had to go back to work as a teacher in order to support my two younger siblings. Money has become tight after we lost the civil court case for compensation. Would you like their names and dates of birth?”  
“No, Romanoff. You are adequately prepared.”  
“I think I know more about Nanette than I do about Natasha,” Clint blinks staring at me.  
“I like to be thorough.”  
We reach Paris and I change into my, or rather Nanette’s clothes, and plait my hair. Clint, Coulson, and Fury are setting up communication channels when I exit the bathroom.  
“Ready, Natasha?” Coulson asks.  
“Of course, I will alert you all once a meeting has been scheduled and will do my best to sit in.” Clint grimaces. “Agent Barton, if you have a problem with my job, perhaps you should have stayed behind.”  
“Sorry. Just be safe,” he sighs. I take my suitcase and disembark from the jet. 

I arrive on the estate an hour later. The gates open for my cab, and the car bumps along the cobblestone driveway. A stern looking older woman is waiting out front. She has on a long-sleeved gray dress with a high collar. This is despite the rather gorgeous spring day. The taxi comes to a stop, and I grab my small suitcase from the trunk. Costumes and wardrobed had purchased it from a thrift shop. The outside is properly scratched from years of wear and tear. It fits Nanette Rhone’s story. It was her mother’s, back when she used to go on vacation with her father. Doesn’t have much use for it now. No husband, no money for travel.  
“Hello,” I introduce myself in perfect French, “It is nice to meet you my name is,”  
“I know what your name is. I also know you are late. Come.” I follow the woman. “I have been with this family for thirty years. This is the first and only time you will be using the front entrance, understood? The back and side entrance is for servants. You get Sundays off, and one Monday a month. I expect there to be no funny business with the driver or the cook. You are to perform whatever services Mr. Boucher deems necessary. This may include looking after his daughter Zoe if it is her nanny’s day off. She will be arriving from New York in a few days. She is from his second marriage; she is almost nine.” The tour is rapid, and she begins to make her way up a winding stone staircase. I follow close behind. “This is your room,” She pulls open the door to a closet sized space with a twin bed and a small dresser. “The bathroom is down the hall to your left. There are five uniforms hung in the closet. I expect them to be pressed and clean. There is a pair of shoes as well. Get changed and meet me in the kitchen in twenty minutes. Mr. Boucher is entertaining guests today.” Looks like Nanette will be getting very little use.  
“Thank you, madame.” The stern woman nods, closing the door behind her. I send a coded text to Fury and change into my uniform. A blue shirtdress with a tie, and brown leather loafers.  
The cook and my new boss, who is yet to introduce herself, are deep in discussion. I hear them mention Kentucky, and food. Enhanced hearing has its frequent benefits. I have figured out a way to infiltrate the meeting.  
“Thierry will like you,” I look up and see a man in a driver’s uniform. He looks me up and down like prey. I do not know why my new boss thought I would engage in _funny business_ with the two male employees. Both are well past their prime.  
“You spent time in at a vineyard, correct?” She looks to me sharply.  
“Yes, madame.”  
“Go pick out a bottle of wine and bring it to his guests. Six glasses. He would undoubtably like to meet you.” Long term sexual exploit. So, they think. I will be gone by tomorrow. “He is entertaining in the East Wing library.”  
I head into the wine cellar, hoping to find what I am looking for. Sure enough, after a bit of digging, I manage to find a bottle of fifty-year-old bourbon. Perfect for a Southern gentleman. Of course, this gentleman happens to be engaging in illegal weapons transfers disguised as an illegal gambling ring.  
I knock on the door to the library, pushing it open. Inside, it is easy to spot Mr. Boucher. Everyone looks to him, enrapt. There are five others. The man from America is easy to spot as well, he wears blue jeans. So stereotypical.  
“You must be Miss Nanette,” I curtsy, holding the bottle of bourbon on a tray with the tumblers. A single stone in each cup.  
“Bourbon?” The man from Kentucky exclaims the same time as the headhouse keeper. Both have vastly different tones.  
“My apologies, sir. I requested that she bring you wine. She said she had,”  
“Hush, Elodie. She clearly knows more than you regarding American interests.”  
“I have spent time in Kentucky, sir,” I dip my head. “Old Rip Van Winkle, only the finest.”  
“My father was a whiskey man, must have hidden that away. This bottle is nearly fifty years old, worth more than most houses,” He looks back at the head housekeeper. “You may come back later when we have had our fun. Nettie here, we would love for her to stay.” I feel her cold eyes planning my punishment for such insolence. Hardly a problem. The door clicks shut, and with that Nanette is no more.

Three hours later, I am lying on the floor of Boucher’s study. The phone hangs off the desk by its cord, waving in my face. The operator is asking me to speak. The world drifts between blurs of color and steady blackness. My right cheek is pressed against his expensive rug, the bristled tickle my nose. From my position, even with the world fading away, I can see their bodies stacked in that closet. But I saved one. I saved her. _Rest, Natasha_. That is what Clint would say. I saved her. We save whomever we can. Rest. I can rest.

“Natasha,”  
“Mhm,”  
“Nat, come on you have to wake up,” Tired. Too tired. “The doctors say it is a miracle she is alive. I really think we should let her rest a while longer.”  
“We will have her out of here before they see the _miracle_ of her healing as well,” a familiar, terse voice barks. I try to will myself to open my eyes, to stand at attention, but it is impossible.  
“I really don’t think we should move her.”  
“What Fury wants,” I keep my eyes closed.  
“Don’t listen to her, she is just waking up from surgery,” Clint argues back.  
“We will move in two hours, Agent Barton,”  
“I can go now,” I force my eyes open. Staying here might be compromising us. I can’t have that be my fault.  
“We can wait a few hours, Natasha.” Fury sounds surprisingly sympathetic. I nod, resting my head back down on the pillows. He heads out, presumably to brief Coulson.  
“Clint,”  
“Hey,” His voice is soft.  
“Can I see her? How is she?”  
“Who?” That didn’t sound right. I feel my senses waking up.  
“Don’t play dumb, Clinton. It doesn’t look good on you.”  
“I don’t,”  
“The girl. I’d like to see her.”  
“Tash,”  
“Did she not make it?” Guilt begins to build. I thought I saved her. How could I fail? I didn’t let myself lose consciousness until she was stable. Her neck has stopped bleeding.  
“You saved her, but,” He won’t meet my eyes.  
“Clint, as a fellow agent, I hope you would do me the courtesy of telling the truth.”  
“As your friend, I think we should wait.”  
“Did he come to the hospital and kill her? Did she go into shock? Was there a complication when she was in surgery? An issue with anesthesia?”  
“She killed herself an hour ago.”  
“I don’t understand, why?”  
“Nat,”  
“I don’t understand,” My thoughts swirl, trying to process this new information. “I saved her. Why would she do that?”  
“Natasha,” Clint begins hesitantly, “She had been sexually abused for weeks,” I nod.  
“Yes, I know. She was being held prisoner and I saved her. I got her out. She should have been happy? Did she want to stay?” I furrow my brow in concentration, trying to wrap my head around it. Perhaps it had been a game for her? She was in on it and I ruined it? But that doesn’t seem right, she was scared. And he stabbed her. Clint looks to the hallway, probably hoping or Fury to come in. It is clear that this is not a conversation he was to be having. But I need to know. “Clint, why did she kill herself? Even if she did not enjoy where she was, there was no longer a reason to be upset. She was free. I stopped the torture. No more whipping or being confined to a closet.”  
“What she went through, it is enough to drive a lot of people to suicide,”  
“But I stopped it. It wasn’t going to happen anymore. She should have been happy,”  
“Nat, we are so happy you saved her. No one is mad about Boucher getting away. Saving a civilian life is always a priority.” Oh my God. I disobeyed orders. That hadn’t even occurred to me. Direct orders, from Fury. Capture Boucher. Arrest him. “Nat, stay with me. Fury is not mad. He would have said something when he was in here if he was.”  
“Why did she kill herself? I don’t understand. I don’t understand!” My heart rate begins to pick up, and a nurse comes in. Clint quickly waves her out. “Is it my fault? Was she upset Boucher left her?” He looks pained. “I am upsetting you, I’m sorry.” I feel the stitches in my back tearing.  
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you hear me? Nothing.” He places a hand on my shoulder, but quickly removes it after realizing his blunder.  
“So, was it a failsafe, like when I tried to run into the Red Room?” None of this is making any sense.  
“Maybe we should get psych,”  
“No!” I interrupt, “No, please. I’ll try harder to understand. Please, I’ll do better.” But I am causing my best friend pain, forcing him to explain this to me. It is a familiar expression. It is one he has worn after many of my solo missions. He has tried to have this conversation with me before. Probably to avoid having it in a moment like this. A moment where it is my fault that someone died. This is about my honeypots.  
“Natasha, she was raped repeated and whipped. It hurt her to the point that dying would be better than living. Being extremely traumatized is the _normal_ reaction,” Clint seems to regret his words immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean,”  
“I am supposed to be traumatized after my missions.”  
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean,”  
“I am supposed to be upset about being forced to have sex. This is why you hate my missions. Or when I offered it to you. Sex is something more than a tool.”  
“I’m sorry. This is not,”  
“I understand, Agent Barton.  
“Nat,”  
“You have been worrying that my reaction would be similar to hers?” I don’t wait for a response, “Don’t worry. It isn’t possible. I feel nothing. It is like firing a gun or throwing a knife. I’m just another weapon to be used for the end goal. My body isn’t mine. It isn’t human. It has been manipulated far too many times to be anything more than an object.”  
“Please don’t say that,”  
“I think I am going to sleep for a little while. We have an hour until it is time to transfer me. Will it be okay with Fury if my mission report is in tomorrow?”  
“You can take as long as you need.”  
“I will be fine by tomorrow,” I assure him. “I am sorry for causing you any undue stress, Agent Barton,”  
“Nat,” I close my eyes, feigning sleep. The painkillers are wearing off. My body throbs. The wounds on my back leak, and shifting my legs is an impossible task. She felt the same way. And she chose to die. Why do I not feel the same way? I should be horrified by my experiences. But instead, I am only horrified by the astounding absence of humanity, of free will. How much has to be removed for a person to feel nothing during the ultimate violation? The Red Room has stripped me of so much. It made death its obedient servant for decades. And I served alongside it. A comrade. But it grants others an opportunity that I cannot have. Why isn't death kind enough to let me go out on my own terms too? Why does it run into battle with me but never for me? Are we doomed to be entwined for eternity? Why can’t my partner of twenty years be merciful enough to let me take my life into my own hands?   
  
Why deny me the most human of experiences when everything else has already been taken? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for such a dark chapter. I don't know what I was thinking when I put this into Lost and Welcome Home.  
> I meant to put out the next chapter of Kindred tomorrow, but quarantine has lifted and its my best friend's birthday so we're going out. Sorry! The chapter will be out Saturday :)  
> Chapter 17 of Volition will be infinitely more lighthearted than this one, despite being murdery.  
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you are staying safe and healthy!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff!! Get ready for some fun Nat and Clint banter!! I needed to lighten things up after the last chapter! I believe this chapter could be referred to as a side quest? Lol  
> Nat started to tell this story to Wanda's class in the first chapter of Lost. I hope you all enjoy!  
> As always, comments and feedback are always welcome!!!

“This is a bad idea,”  
“You’re a bad idea,” I snap back sitting down in our row.  
“I just think you haven’t had enough time off.” Clint throws his duffel into the overhead bin, next to mine, and sits down in the seat. “I’m sure you could hand off your role to Carter,”  
“Really? You’re _sure_?”  
“Oh, come on, Nat. It’s not like I don’t want to work with you. I’m just worried,” I roll my shoulders, the freshly healed scars on my back tighten with the movement. They should be gone by June. But given it is early April, that gives me months until I am on solo missions again. This is much to Clint’s glee, I am sure.  
“You could just be happy that I survived and not be such a condescending prick.” I pull my iPod out of my backpack.  
“So, you’re just going to not talk to me for the rest of the train ride?”  
“Amazing powers of deduction. You should be a spy.”  
I put in the white earbuds and turn up the music, if only to drown out my best friend’s worries. If they were valid concerns, I would have tried to be at least somewhat understanding. But it is his own conception of my humanity that is sending him into a nervous spiral. There is a pit growing in my stomach. Guilt. Just because his fears are unwarranted, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be reassuring him. I pull out my earbuds and snap my book shut.  
“Clint,” He looks up from his own book, one of the mystery novels he loves so much. “I am sorry for dismissing your concerns. But you should know I am fine. Really. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”  
“Nat,”  
“I’m trying to be a compassionate and understanding friend. Don’t make this any harder for me than it is already.”  
“Noted,” he laughs. He hasn’t laughed around me in weeks. I nod, satisfied. He still glances over at me as if I am a ticking timebomb but is noticeably more relaxed. Finally. I am supposed to be the tense one out of the two of us.  
We arrive at our hotel a short while later, just a block from The Met. Our hope is to only be here for a week, maybe two. There was talk on the dark web about Monet’s Waterlilies being eyed by some collectors. It is rumored that these are the same _collectors_ who robbed the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.  
Clint and I change into our new uniforms to be undercover as night janitors at the museum.  
“I don’t see why we can’t be curators. Why janitors?”  
“First of all, janitors are much less likely to be noticed than an academic. Secondly, why would a curator be at the museum at three in the morning?”  
“I don’t know. Maybe he has a rough home life, got in a fight with his wife. You don’t know his story.”  
“Mhm,” We head down the street, the sun just starting to set on the city that never sleeps. A pregnant woman brushes by us as we near central park. Her young son, maybe only two, is trying to race ahead, clearly having escaped his stroller.  
“You know, I could see you living in the city,” Clint drawls, looking up at the beautiful stone buildings around us. “A nice apartment overlooking Central Park. Racing around in your Porsche, being badass.”  
“And what about work?”  
“You can be a spy on the weekends. I don’t know, Nat. I’d just like you to see you build a life for yourself.”  
“I’m happy to live vicariously through yours.” We near Central Park and the Met.  
“Seriously, you could adopt or something. There’s no reason you can’t have the life you want.”  
“I’m not fit to be a mother, Clint. No kid would want me. They’d have to I don’t know, be just as dangerous and deadly as me. And you would be hard-pressed to find a kid like that.”  
“Tash,”  
“Clint, stop. I don’t want to talk about what I can’t have. I’m Auntie Nat. That is more than I ever thought possible. And I am extremely grateful for you allowing me to have that role in Cooper’s life. If this is your way of trying to convince me I should think about retiring someday, it is incredibly ineffective and is bordering on cruel.” My words come tumbling out so quickly, so emotionally, that I am disgusted with myself.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Let’s just get to the museum, okay?”

By night four, Clint begins to get antsy. Not that I can blame him. Normally, undercover missions involve a bit of tact, interacting with people. But beyond the occasional nod to a security guard, we are left to our own devices.  
“You are aware we don’t actually have to clean, right? A team is sent in around six each morning. We are just supposed to monitor the painting,” I hold up the device that hacked into the security cameras trained on the masterpiece.  
“I’m getting bored. At least I can be somewhat helpful. Only one of us needs to watch the cameras.”  
“Okay, something else is clearly bothering you.”  
“We’re going to Iowa for two months this summer.”  
“Oh.” I force out a smile, “You deserve the vacation, Clint. And I’m sure Cooper will love being able to run around and play with… chickens? Are there people in Iowa?”  
“Very funny, Nat. Top notch comedian.” I pretend to bow. “I tried to get Fury to give you the time off too so you could come, but it was a no go. I guess a lot of agents requested time off and,”  
“You are worrying for nothing.”  
“But you’ll be alone.”  
“I’ll have Hill,” Clint shakes his head, “Fine. I’ll have Coulson or Fury. If I become truly absolutely desperate for human interaction, I will call Sharon or Sitwell. Okay?”  
“I just wish,” He was going to bring her up. He blessedly stops himself before he says her name.  
“I’m going to go do a few laps around the museum. You’re on camera duty.” I toss him the device and listen to my feet echo in the empty halls.

On the thirteenth night, we get lucky. Even I had started to become bored and went to a costume shop while Clint was sleeping earlier that day. When he had awoken, I presented a bag of disguises. I put on thick eyebrows and a fake tattoo. Clint pastes on a fake mustache.  
“Oh my God,” I roll on the floor, laughing. “You look like the star of a seventies porno,”  
“Natasha, I can’t get it off, it’s stuck,” I pick up the glue package he used.  
“You shaved first, right?” I ask.  
“What? No! Why would I shave first?” I peal off my fake tattoos and remove the eyebrows, beginning to put on my SHIELD disguise instead. “Natasha,” he whines.  
“We have to leave in five minutes. Either I rip it off,” Clint’s face pales, “Or you wear it tonight and we use a solvent tomorrow.”  
He runs his finger over the mustache self-consciously as we watch the monitors. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh.  
“Aren’t you going to ask me?”  
“Ask you what?” He looks up from the screen.  
“If I wanted extra sausage with my pizza,” I laugh so hard at his unimpressed expression that my sides hurt. “Or are you here to fix my pipes?”  
“Natasha,”  
“Hold on, I’m just getting started,” He elbows me a little too hard and I look down at the screen. “Shit.”  
We pull our weapons from the janitor’s cart and make our way down the hall. Not damaging the painting is our top priority, though there is a forged version waiting to be hung if necessary. I short out the security cameras through the breaker in the basement, which will distract the security guard long enough for us to finish. We approach the room and I help Clint into the ceiling where he will drop from above. The Annenberg Collection had become one of my favorites during our tenure here. I hope that it isn’t destroyed during this fight. I step into the gallery, walking around. Whomever they put on guard is clearly awful at it. As I approach, I can see they only have one man on watch, the other three trying to remove the painting.  
“Hey fellas, I hope you’re not trying to steal that painting.” The three men stop unpacking their tools. I throw an electric disk at the man who was supposed to be on lookout, and he falls to the ground in convulsions. Clint drops from the lit ceiling, quickly disarming them before their weapons could be pulled, their attention still on me.  
“Well, that was anticlimactic. Two weeks of surveillance and it takes seconds to take them down. Worst mission ever,” I zip tie the failed security now that the disk is no longer shocking him. He puts up little resistance. I wait for Clint to make a comment about it being the shock of a lifetime, or something equally corny, but he doesn’t. “Hawkeye, everything okay over there?”  
“Nat, you got to see this,” He tosses me a notebook and I catch it with ease, flipping through it. There are hundreds of paintings logged with country of origin and date. One of the earliest entries is from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.  
“So, we’ve got the right guys,” I look closer, “Holy shit.”  
“I know. I’ve paged Fury.”   
Our phones start to ring, and we quickly answer. Hill, Carter, and Rollins are sent to France, intercepting a shipment of weapons. Flipping through, the dates of shipment arrivals correspond with major attacks around the world. Weapons were being shipped to the painting’s country of origin.  
“Feds are on their way,” Clint receives a text from Fury a few minutes later. I am thankful for the silent treatment being provided by this team of merry men. “I feel a lot better about spending the past few weeks guarding a painting now that it turned out to be something bigger,” I try not to laugh at his serious expression, “What?”  
“I’m sorry, it’s the porn ‘stache. It is hard to take you seriously with that thing,”  
“It’s your fault! And the feds are going to see this and make fun of me. God, I hope it’s not Harrison. He transferred from SHIELD to the New York FBI field office my first year. He will give me so much,”  
“Barton! What is with the porno look?” Clint throws his head back in a groan as his old friend walks into the gallery. “They just having you go undercover as creepers nowadays?”

Spring rolls into summer and there is a belated “Defection Day” celebration. Missions are uneventful. And I am forced to go on one with Sharon, who proves to not be terrible in the field. She has long since given up on being my friend but is kinder than being professional mandates. I reciprocate with the same. For my birthday/4th of July celebration, the Barton’s and I head back to the same Virginia Beach house that we rented during our last visit, and Cooper is much more mobile now, to a tired Laura’s chagrin. I keep the toddler entertained so she and Clint can have some much-deserved quality time.  
Cooper, now potty trained, is much easier to watch. We play on the beach and go to the zoo. I bring him over to the spider exhibit and point out the black widow.  
“See that one, Coop? That’s me,” He looks up at me, confused, before getting distracted by the scorpions a case away. The lions turn out to be a big hit, and he continues to roar to me as I carry him around on my hip. It is surprising, when I offer him a lion stuffed animal from the giftshop, that he reaches for a rubber spider instead.  
“Auntie Nat!” He holds up the spider to his parents. Clint can’t stop laughing, while for the duration of the trip, whenever Cooper is asked to grab me, he brings back both me and his spider.

It is mid-August when the small family leaves for Iowa. They are checking out wedding venues and visiting Laura’s parents and sister.  
“You could pretend to be injured, so that you’re benched,” Clint offers one last time as he packs up the car with their bags. I add Cooper’s tiny Thomas the Tank Engine suitcase to the pile.  
“You know I can’t do that. But I’ll miss you.”  
“How could you not,” He puffs out his chest.  
“You are such a dork,” I shove his shoulder. He shoves back.  
“I love your hugs, Nat.” He teases, but I can see the warmth and love in his eyes. “You’re going to be okay, right? You can always reach me. Really. I will fly right back.”  
“You are not leaving me with them!” Laura calls from the passenger seat, sticking her head out the window. “My sister will eat me alive if you’re not their to buffer!”  
“Fine, _we’ll_ come back. And you know I’ll always be on extraction if you need me.”  
“Stop worrying, you big goof. Go enjoy your family reunion.” I slam the trunk of Laura’s car. “And bring me back some corn or something,” 

It is two weeks away from Clint coming home when Fury calls me into his office. For the past six weeks, I had gone on three missions, none lasting for more than a few days. Two were with Hill, one with the STRIKE team and Coulson. Seeing him out of a suit will never stop seeming wrong.  
I sit down in front of Fury’s desk and he slides me over the casefile, looking strangely hesitant. He leans back in his chair, watching me. Curious about this test, as I have no clue what he is gauging, I open the manilla folder. It is a honeypot mission in Laos.  
“Romanoff, if you aren’t comfortable,”  
“I am fine, sir. It is what I was made for. I have no issue with completing my task.”  
“If you are sure,”  
“Yes.” I nod, closing the folder. “When do I leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you all know what is coming... Nat's first bender. It will be a lighter chapter, not heavy. The first part is already written and I actually find it kind of amusing. Anywho... hope you all enjoyed! Next chapter of Kindred will be out by Thursday! :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor trigger warning for suicidal ideation and discussions of miscarriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy this chapter! Sorry for the delay, I have been super insanely busy! Thank you all for reading :)  
> As always, comments and feedback are always welcome and appreciated!

**_1996_ **

_“Natalia,” I look over at Yelena, she is sitting cross legged on the cobblestone. Her black eye is quickly disappearing. The youthfulness that lines her face is yet to fade as it has for her classmates. She still has a sparkle in her eye that they can’t stamp out. I hope it is because of me. A few days ago, she killed an older Widow, Adelina. She was a ruthless trainer when she was back at the Academy from missions. But she has no memory of this kill. It was a major victory, and I feel bad that Yelena does not get to remember it. She is only ten and she managed to kill someone three times her age. But I know better than to question why they let us keep some things and take others. “Natalia,” the younger girl says again.  
“Sorry. Yes, none of the older girls in my class have told me what happens. Our training changes, that is all I know.”  
“Will you tell me?” Her big blue eyes bore into mine.  
“Of course I will, Yelena. I tell you everything.”  
“Soldat arrived today,” She leans forward, her pinafore slipping slightly, “I am an excellent spy,” She boasts. His arrival doesn’t sit well in my stomach. “Perhaps it has something to do with your birthday,” Yelena tilts her head. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you!” She changes the topic, for a moment, she has the excitement and grins of a normal ten year old, “They have discovered that I am amazing with computers.”  
“I am happy for you. You will not have to sit through hours of language classes like me.”  
“Yes, it is good. Though, I have to say, French is very pretty. But your English, I heard Madame B complimenting your teacher yesterday,” My chest warms at the unexpected praise. I had been reciting English nonstop in the showers and running it through my head as we ran laps. Practicing the conjugations, going through all the words I know alphabetically, and then again backwards. Yet, my mind drifts to why Soldat would be here. Last time he was here, was when Irina turned twelve five weeks ago. “It is getting too hot, and our hour is ending. Tomorrow, can you teach me the thigh grab you made up? I know Madame has you teaching the older girls. I don’t like this talking thing,”  
“Of course, Little Sister,” Yelena’s eyes widen at the forbidden term, her mouth twisting into a grin.  
“I will try to get you extra bread for your birthday. Mr. Varkov in the kitchen has a soft spot for me.”  
The next afternoon, I miss my time with Yelena. Instead, I have a session with Soldat. _

**_Present_ **

_This isn’t right_. I am standing at a private airfield in Laos. It has been twelve days. I have changed hands so many times, I am surprised I remember all their faces. And I feel fine. Or I did. Until now. Now that I have finished the mission. I got the data. I did not fail. But this isn’t a normal reaction. Walking out after being used as a tool for two weeks. Stopping for a cup of coffee on the way to the airfield. Joking with the barista. I am a little sore, but I feel fine. _Normal reaction_. That is what Clint said. I am not having a normal reaction. Because of the Red Room. The Winter Soldier. Ivan. The guards. The injections. I should be traumatized. Instead, I feel nothing when I think of those interactions, apathetic even.  
A wave of dread begins to push me under, threatening to drown me. Not normal. Not normal. Not normal. Not human. Something other. A tool. A weapon. A doll. That is what he used to call me. Doll.  
Hearing his voice, whispering that in my ear, it elicits a physical reaction. That word. I don’t know why. My granola bar, coffee, and stomach acid end up in a bush.  
Thoughts continue to tumble at me. I can remember it all. All the milestones. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Sixteen. Something new. Something to perfect. And I feel nothing when I think of those events. There is something wrong with me. I feel my nails begins to dig into my palms. No. No spiraling like that. Not today. They can’t control me. I won’t let them control others. I couldn’t stop them from making me into this thing. But I can stop others. I can prevent other women and girls from becoming a plaything. That is all I am. But I am not a doll. Not anymore. I am a tool. A weapon. A black widow. A black widow mates and kills. Perhaps I am more than what they made me, because I don’t plan on mating with anyone.

* * *

I hum quietly as I finish my work. The song had been stuck in my head ever since I saw the trailer for _Mamma Mia_ a few days ago. Better than letting my thoughts take over. The last time, it was messy. Messy is dangerous, gets you caught. Messy leaves you hugging a rotting corpse, begging to take your own life. An earworm is better, no matter how annoying.  
The cleanup is easy, it usually is. I’m efficient, there is rarely time for a struggle. Except for the incident in Malaysia last week. But I hadn’t expected to find a girl there. Or rather, what was left of a girl. I had been careful to take care of business outside of the location of the rings’ locations. The girls I left to local authorities with an anonymous tip. Storming into that restaurant in Kuala Lumpur, I had lost control a little. Cleanup took too long and wasn’t done properly. Messy, as I said. Since then, I had taken care of some people in Jakarta. It had gone perfectly. Now, I am back on the Gold Coast for the first time since 2004.  
It had been one of the more pleasant Red Room missions. I went undercover as a college student for three months, covertly guarding an important Russian mobster’s daughter who was studying abroad. It was during those three months that I befriended her and learned to surf. She thought I was just a stupid American. It hadn’t been easy to kill her at the end of the semester, when her father betrayed the Red Room. But I will always have the fond memories of bonfires on the beach and surfing under the full moon. Noelle Richards. One of many aliases.  
This trip is yet to bring such fond memories. I am in a beach shack two hours outside of Brisbane and Australia’s summer is creeping in quickly. It will not be long before the bodies in front of me start to rot.  
I finish lining them up, all six. There are two women in the group, which was surprising. Equal opportunity employer, I suppose. I twist my hair into a bun and begin to rinse of my knives in the sink, the song still on my lips.  
“Are you singing Dancing Queen?” I spin around, throwing the knife in my hand. He ducks just in time, hitting the floor. When I don’t throw another, he rises slowly, hands in the air. “Nat, is that you?” I nod, redirecting my attention to the task at hand. Getting blood off my favorite knives. I hear Clint pull the one I just threw out of the wall. “Some verbal confirmation, Tash.”  
“You shouldn’t be here, Clint.” I dry the knives off on an old rag and slide them back into their sleeves, putting out my hand for the knife Clint holds.  
“You have to come home,” he says, passing it to me. I shake my head and pick up my duffel bag, heading out into the sand. He follows close behind. “Then at least get lunch with me, can you do that?”  
“Lunch,” I acquiesce, “Nothing more.”  
We end up at a small bar on the water, each with fish tacos and a beer. He frowns, examining me.  
“You’re doing it again,”  
“And what might that be?” He gestures to our food.  
“Also, you messed up last week. I’ve been tracking you since.”  
“Six days to find me, you’ve lost your touch.”  
“No. You wanted to be found. You left this in Jakarta.” He holds out a Ziploc bag. There is a black elastic with a few strands of red hair tangled around it.  
“Perhaps I am getting sloppy.”  
“No. You don’t get sloppy, Nat.” He puts down his beer, “Please, come home.”  
“I don’t have a home. I don’t deserve a home.” I’m not a real person. People have homes. People feel things. I feel nothing. No, that’s a lie. I feel something when I look at Clint. Or when I killed the sex traffickers. I feel nothing when I should feel anguish. The glass of water cracks in my hand, nearly breaking. Clint eyes it, and then looks back at me.  
“You do have one. With me, Laura, Coop. Even the SHIELD team.”  
“Do you want to split a desert? I have a plane chartered to leave in a few hours, so unfortunately, we are going to have to cut our date short.” I force out a smile. Next is continental Asia, eventually making my way to Europe and then Africa. I can fix this. Clear the red in my ledger. Save others from a similar fate.  
“Natasha. You have to come home.” His voice is sterner, and it sounds a lot less like a request from my best friend. It didn’t take them long.  
“Oh,” I finish off my beer, “When will they start hunting me?”  
“Twenty-four hours until your immunity expires. As far as the council knows, you’ve only been gone a week.”  
“Fury covered for me?” The blood rushes from my face.  
“Of course he did. You’re one of his favorite agents, and we agree that sending you on that mission was not the best choice.”  
“I completed the mission. I left the info at the extraction site.”  
“Natasha, when I got there, the only sign of you was the flash drive and some vomit. I was terrified.”  
“You were on extraction?” I feel small.  
“Yes! Jesus fucking Christ, do you know what it did to me to think that you had been taken? That something went wrong? I had to go home to Laura for a few days, but I have been scouring the South Pacific for two weeks now.”  
“What’s wrong with Laura?” I interrupt. Clint leaving a mission to go home to Laura meant something had to be bad. Cooper must be fine. He would have said go home to Cooper and Laura if something had happened to his son. That does little to alleviate my fears, thinking of my friend. Of everything that could have happened to her. Car accident. Kidnapping. Stabbing. Shooting.  
“She was pregnant and miscarried. Only eight weeks along, but,” I reach out and grab my friend’s hand. He seems just as surprised by the gesture as I am. My heart breaks for him. I can see the grief in his eyes, the hunch in his shoulders. He had loved the child, for as long as it had existed.  
“I’m so sorry, Clint. And you have been here, searching for me.” Any guilt that I had about Fury having to cover for me is quickly overshadowed by the fact that my partner has been trying to find me rather than be at home, grieving with his wife. I hadn’t even noticed, too wrapped up in my crusade.  
“We’ll be okay, but Nat, you need to come back.”  
“Why? Wouldn’t it just be easier to kill me? I’m not worth all of this, Clint. If you kill me now, they won’t have to go through the trouble of trying to find me again. And I know you’ll be kind, make it painless.”  
“Natasha, I need you. I love being able to go into work with my best friend every day. It is so amazing. You are a good person.”  
“This past month may be to differ,”  
“All those kills were merciful. You didn’t make a since person suffer. Even if they might have deserved it. Should you have been on a killing spree? No. They should have faced the justice system and you should have reported this intel, that you have somehow gathered, to SHIELD. But, I genuinely believe your heart was in the right place.” He runs his fingers through his hair, leaving it spiking off in different directions, “Nat, I’m not going to kill you. I could never kill you. But they will send Strike Team Delta.”  
“I wouldn’t be able to resist fighting back. Maybe to you, but not them. I’d have no control.” Even resisting Clint could be futile, but I would try.  
“They’d send more. They would keep sending assassins until you are no longer a threat. You have to come home. Don’t let them make you into the monster they think you are.”  
“I didn’t know you were on extraction.” I find the courage to look up from my empty plate, “If I had known, I just didn’t,” I run my finger along the lip of the beer bottle, “It wasn’t, I couldn’t,” The words escape me.  
“It’s okay, I understand.” Does he though? Does he understand that I feel dehumanized? Like a marionette whose strings are being pulled and tugged. “Not to mention, since we’ve gotten home, Cooper has been throwing at that stupid rubber spider at us, screaming for you. He needs his Auntie Nat,” Auntie Nat. Natasha. I hold tight to what feels real, to what bleeds color into my life of gray.  
“I will come back.” I sit up straight, pushing back my shoulders, “I promise, I will always come back.” For him. For Laura. For Cooper. Always come back. Home.  
“You always have a place with us, Nat. No matter what has happened,” No matter what I have done, that is what he is really saying. Not matter my atrocities. I am not worthy of this compassion, forgiveness. “Nat, are you with me?”  
“Here,” I murmur. All I want to do is hide.

Clint takes me to his hotel room. It is nicer than where SHIELD normally puts us up, and I am beginning to get the sense that this isn’t a sanctioned mission. More likely, it was Fury sending him after me off book. He orders room service as soon as we enter the room.  
“We just ate two hours ago,”  
“Nat, before our lunch, when was the last time you ate?”  
“I don’t know, maybe two days?”  
“Nat,”  
“It’s easy to just forget,”  
“Forget to eat?”  
“Yes, I had a task that I was focusing on.” I pull off my shoes and settle down on the king-sized bed. It is far more luxurious than anything I have slept in the past six weeks. On the mission, it was a cement floor, or the bed of one of my marks. After that, it was wherever I collapsed with exhaustion.  
“So, you’re an ABBA fan?” Clint asks, changing the subject.  
“No, but it has been stuck in my head for days.” I lean back against the headboard. Maria will be here late tonight. According to Clint, she had been on a _mission_ in the area since he found the hair elastic, so that we would have a quinjet to get home. I caused a lot of problems. “I couldn’t help myself,” I blurt out. He looks up from his phone, surprised. “I needed to stop it from happening to others,”  
“That is why SHIELD has missions, Nat. To deal with stuff like that.”  
“I couldn’t wait for justice and bureaucracy, my brain it wasn’t thinking like that. It was immediate. Every minute that I was doing nothing,”  
“It’s okay,”  
“It’s not.” I look down at my hands. Deceivingly soft and delicate. They should be calloused, scarred, rough.  
“Hey, come on, stay with me, Nat.” I nod, trying not to drift. The older I become; the more apparent the Red Room’s experiments are. I’m twenty-four, but I still look eighteen, perhaps slightly older. I will be able to go on honeypot missions for years. Decades. Perhaps even a century if I continue aging at this pace. “Natasha,” Stay present. I drifted a lot these past few weeks. There are holes in time. Hours passed. Night had fallen. Stay present. I dig my nails into my palms, the light pain serving as an anchor.  
“What is my punishment going to be?”  
“You’ll probably be benched for a bit. No more solo missions for a while, that’s for sure.” Clint meant for this to sound reassuring, but it sends my panic into overdrive. What will be my use? What will they have me do? SHIELD doesn’t allow my interrogation techniques. What about missions that Clint goes on without me? Am I to just sit at home and wait? I can’t just sit and do nothing.  
“I can still do solo missions, I swear. I won’t fall off the face of he earth for four weeks again. It won’t happen.”  
“I know. This bender, it was a one off, yeah?” I nod, drumming my fingers on my thighs. I force them to still.  
“Pierce has requested that we join Strike Team Delta,”  
“Okay,” I nod.  
“Natasha, we hate them,”  
“It’s an order. And technically, a bit of a promotion.”   
“But those men,”  
“Are animalistic pigs who would fit in better on a farm than in a government agency. However, orders are orders.”  
“No! It isn’t right.”  
“Nothing is right, Clint. Your best friend is a super soldier assassin who just went on a month-long killing spree and has had her brain played with so many times that,” I cut myself off. “I’m going to sleep, okay?”  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed,”  
“Clint, if you keep apologizing, you are going to wake up on the roof. Of a different hotel.” I shut off my bedside lamp. The blackout curtains had been pulled shut as soon as we arrived. With the lamp off, it is easy to pretend it is the dead of night. In the darkness of the hotel room, I feel a rush of courage. It is easier to be brave in the world I was made for.  
“Thank you for not giving up on me,”   
“Never, Tash.”

“You look like shit.” Maria’s eyes survey me as we board the quinjet.  
“Nice to see you too,”  
“Seriously, what happened?” She looks to Clint. Her brusque tone is disguising her real concern, but I am too tired. Now that I can finally rest, it seems as though it is all my body and mind want to do. He gives a subtle shake of his head and I fall into one of the seats in the back. Maria heads to the front, piloting, while Clint, normally such a control freak about flights, settles down next to me with an IV kit and some protein bars. I let him do what he wants and eat three bars before my stomach becomes uncomfortably full.  
“Tell me something good,” I close my eyes and rest my head back, “Something about Cooper, or your truck. Anything.”  
“We’re celebrating Cooper’s second birthday this weekend. We are doing a spider theme, no thanks to you. It was all about Elmo before, now,” he laughs. I can imagine the crease around his eyes, the shake of his head. “And I met Cooper’s cousins for the first time. His only cousins, considering Barney is,” his voice catches, but he continues, “One is a year older than Coop, one a year younger. Cute kids. Mother is an absolute terror though. No wonder why Laura went to college in D.C. I don’t blame her. My future in-laws are a piece of work too,” They aren’t the good things I asked for, but they help all the same. Listening to Clint tell me about his life for the past few months, the normal things that I will never have. I make sure to smile or frown at certain parts, so he knows that I am listening, but he expects nothing more. And for that, I am grateful.  
I deserved a worse punishment. Though I had grown not to expect physical or mental torture, being benched for only two weeks seemed lenient. But it will be an arduous fourteen days that will likely having me crawling up the walls. So perhaps, Fury knows what he is doing. I showered back on base and changed into fresh clothes. My jeans hang off of me, and I realize, as I look in the mirror, that Maria and Clint were right. I look awful. My focus had been so ingrained on the task at hand, that it was easy to forget to eat.  
I step out of the bathroom and follow Clint to his truck, sitting down in the passenger seat.  
“Natasha, hey,” We are at the building, somehow. I clench and unclench my fists. “It’s okay. You’re safe, remember? You’re home.” Home. I scoff slightly. “Cooper and Laura are very excited to see you,” My heart softens slightly. “There you are,” He grins.  
Clint unlocks the door to his apartment, and I am bombarded by a toddler throwing himself at my legs.  
“Auntie Nat!” In the past three months, it is like he had aged a year. I scoop him up and tickle his stomach, causing him to erupt into giggles.  
“How’s my little man?”  
“Love you,” he places a slobbery kiss on my cheek.  
“Love you too, Coop.” I set him down and he runs off, my absence already forgotten. Laura stands back. Laura. She has tears in her eyes. She wraps her arms around me, hugging me tightly. I feel my heartbeat quicken and try to school myself to relax. However, she must have felt it and lets go. I take her hands and squeeze them, trying to offer some form of comfort.  
“Laura, I am so sorry,”  
“Just wasn’t that baby’s time yet,” Laura takes her hands from mine, wiping her eyes, “But Nat, we were so worried.”  
“I’m sorry,”  
“Next time,” Next time? “you need to disappear, just let us know. And not for so long.” No scolding. No telling me to never do that again. She understood, the world becoming too much. Having to disappear. “We love you, no matter what. You’re family. Now, I made a roast chicken, will you take it out of the oven for me?”  
“Putting her to work already, Laura?”  
“She’s more use than you,” she teases her husband lightly.  
That evening, Clint walks me back into my apartment. My plants, all three of them, are long dead. He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking as though he is trying to find the words for something.  
“So, did you ask Coulson to be your best man yet?” I ask, breaking the silence and pouring us each a drink.  
“What?” He takes the glass but looks hopelessly confused.  
“You know, for your wedding. That is in eleven months.”  
“Nat, you can’t be serious.”  
“I don’t understand,” Now both of us stare at each other, with equal expressions of befuddlement. Clint shakes his head, taking a long sip of the whiskey I poured, before setting the tumbler on the counter.  
“I just didn’t think I had to ask. I though you’d know. I thought it was obvious.”  
“I’m sorry, I’m not following,”  
“Natasha Romanoff, will you be my best man? Or woman, maid of honor. I don’t know. Will you stand beside me at my wedding?” I fail to hide my shock, eliciting a laugh from Clint. “I should have filmed it,”  
“You want me to be your best woman?”  
“Well you’re already my best friend,”  
“I would be honored, Clint. Thank you.”  
“I’ve missed you, Tash. You need to know how important you are to me, to all of us. We are really grateful to have you around. You make our lives better by being in them.” He clears his throat, picking up his glass of whiskey once more. I nudge his shoulder and he smiles at me.  
“You’re a big softie, you know that?”  
“No more than you,” he replies with a smile. I missed him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!  
> Next chapter will have a lot going on! It should be up later this week! The next chapter of Kindred is almost done, I meant to have it up tonight but it go too late and will be up tomorrow.  
> Thank you for reading along!!  
> Also, I plan on having this fic gradually get lighter, I didn’t realize how dark it got 😬


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay! The next chapter for Kindred should be up tonight as well. Hope you are all doing amazing! Please enjoy!

“I’m not going. I can’t right now. Yes, in two weeks. I don’t care. Yes, I’ll let her know.”  
“I appreciated Coulson’s concern,”  
“Jesus Christ Tash!” Clint jumps out of his skin, “When did you get here?”  
“Just now.”  
“He wanted me to go on a mission. I said no.” My heart leaps to my throat, “Not until you are back in the field.”  
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”  
“And I didn’t ask your permission.” I come around the couch and see an accordion folder.  
“What’s that?” He reaches to grab it, but I am much faster.  
“Nat, please don’t,” I pull out the first thing I feel, a photo, and drop it like its on fire. It is a picture of the academy. Embarrassed by my reaction, I bend down and pick up the four by six piece of paper, keeping it overturned, and dropping it back into the brown folder.  
“Clint, what is this? What are you doing?” He at least has the decency to look ashamed. His hands wrap lightly around the file, easily removing it from my grasp.  
“I’m doing research.”  
“I can answer any questions you have, or I would try my best.” I’m hurt, honestly, that he thought I wouldn’t. That I would be that closed off to him. If he had any questions about the Red Rooms operations, I would answer. “Is there a similar group rising? Is that what Coulson’s call was about?” I know it wasn’t. I know why he is doing this. But a piece of me still hopes my made-up tale is true. The door to the apartment opens before Clint can respond, Laura walking in with Cooper on her hip, coming home from Mommy & Me. I was coming over to meet her to go out for lunch.  
“Hi, sorry I’m late. Cooper was,” She pauses at the scene before her.  
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”  
“I will make some tea,” She puts Cooper down who runs over to his new trainset from Coulson.  
“Because I didn’t want you to know,”  
“Well no shit, Clint.”  
“Shit?” Cooper looks up from his toy.  
“Perhaps we should finish this conversation in your apartment.”  
“Fine by me.” He begins to put down the file, “You’re bringing that,” I snap, striding out of the room.  
In the hall, I hold open the door to my apartment, waiting for him. He follows, with the folder.  
“Listen, I didn’t,”  
“You are doing research on me. I’m not stupid.”  
“You are the smartest person I know. I would never think you,”  
“Then why would you try to hide this from me?”  
“Because you might not know. And I’m scared that the same thing that happened to Yelena will happen to you. I am terrified, Nat. I don’t want to lose you. When I saw you, in that house, surrounded by those bodies, what I found before, it made me scared that I would have to put a bullet in you or just let you kill me.” It didn’t occur to me, that some of the anguish he exhibited in Australia could be concern for me. “Natasha, I love you. Can’t you understand that?”  
“No!” I snap, “I can’t!” I take a haggard breath. “I’m nothing, Clint. I am something resembling a human, a shadow. Why anyone would choose to love me, it is beyond my understanding. I can name eight thousand digits of pie, speak two dozen languages, memorize maps with a single glance, and can beat most chess masters at their own game. But I cannot, for the life of me, understand why someone would choose to love me.”  
“Well, that’s your problem right there.” He sits down on my couch.  
“What?”  
“You think that loving someone is a choice.”  
“They told us love is for children.” I sit down in the armchair across from him. “That it is a child’s game. It makes you weak. Unfocused. That we had to make the conscious choice not to love.” I think of when I was twenty. When they finally got the message across. That I had chosen and chosen wrong.  
“But you love Yelena,”  
“I chose to allow myself to love her when we were free. When the Red Room was finally dismantled. Before that, I didn’t want her dead. There is a difference.” I pull in my legs, “And I loved her. Past tense. She is dead.”  
“You don’t stop loving someone just because they die.”  
“Well, I suppose I have a lot to learn, then.” I cannot stop the bitterness creeping into my voice.  
“Do you want to help me?”  
“With what?” I rest my chin on my knees.  
“Going through this,” he holds up the folder, “These documents are almost seventy years old. Some things were bound to have changed.” I get up from the chair. “Wait, Nat, I’m sorry,  
“Don’t apologize. I’m just going to grab us handcuffs and coffee.” I shoot him a smile, happy for the change of subject. Even going through my torturous childhood is better than talking about my feelings. I move my chair over to the radiator and clip the handcuffs to my right wrist and the metal pipe.  
“Is that necessary?”  
“It’ll be easier to resist if I can’t actually try and kill you.” Clint’s face pales, “Let’s do this.”  
“I’m starting to think,”  
“Don’t back down on my now, Barton.” He sighs and unclips the accordion folder, pulling out at least twenty manilla envelopes. “That last that we have on the Red Room is from the early nineties. But really, since it moved locations after Peggy Carter found it, we didn’t get much. We’d have more but,”  
“I burned it all to ash. Yes, I remember. I was there, kind of.” He doesn’t appreciate my grim humor. “I don’t regret it. Burning it. Killing,” I feel my throat contract, “Madame B.” Clint’s eyes brim with concern, “Okay, let’s get on with it, yeah?”  
“Okay,” He pulls open the first folder, and pulls the other armchair around so we are sitting side by side. “I guess I will read things off and show you stuff, then you let me know if it was done?”  
“Fury and Coulson would have our heads if they knew about this.”  
“That’s why I didn’t tell them I took this photo from archives when I was uploading it to the digital server.” He grins mischievously.  
It does not end in grinning. It ends with me hiding in my closet with a gun and a broken right thumb. Trying to get the thoughts from my mind.  
“So, Nat, I uh, guess we’re never taking that family trip to Disney,”  
“Eto konets?”  
“It’s over Nat. You didn’t hurt me. I want to open the closet door, but really don’t want to get shot.  
“I don’t want to do it,”  
“Then don’t, put the gun down, Nat. It’s okay.”  
“They’re mad at me. I told Yelena,”  
“No one is mad at you.” Clint. How is Clint here? No. Not in the Red Room. We are in my apartment in D.C. We were going over the Red Room files. Snow White. I told Yelena about the purpose of the movie. They made her watch my punishment. I was put in the sensory deprivation room for three weeks. Punishment for disrupting her education. I crack open the closet door and slide out my gun.  
“For three weeks, they kept me in a silent pitch-black room. At random times, they would turn on strobe lights and heavy metal music, lasting for minutes or hours. I didn’t know. Then, when I came out, they had me fight a girl. They wanted me to lose. But I don’t. I never do. Even half-mad.”  
“Natasha,”  
“I don’t want to go over these files anymore. Can we have Laura set my thumb?”  
“Of course.” He opens the door up all the way. I find myself unable to move. He offers his hand, and I am surprised when I take it. “You put yourself into sensory deprivation, into a dark, silent place.” His voice is quiet, hesitant. Like he is wondering if he should bring it up at all.  
“It is more like home than anywhere else.”  
“Someday, that will change,” he promises quietly, “I’m sure of it.”

* * *

Fury begins to send me on solo missions once my punishment ends. They are different than the ones I have had in the past. They are more like the ones I do with Clint. Data recon undercover at galas, working security on high profile officials.  
Our time with Strike Team: Delta proves to be just as torturous as Clint imagined it would be. Rumlow runs point, though my partner and I are frequently given sub missions by Fury, some that contradict directly with Rumlow’s orders. It is a bit of a rush to be able to disobey the man, knowing that Fury is the one truly in charge. His frustration with Clint and I is endless, but any complaints to Coulson or the director are met with shrugs.  
It has been seven months since my month-long killing spree. I had been sent on one honeypot since then, and once again felt this overwhelming shame that drove me to try to right the world. This illogical drive that I couldn’t ignore. I was gone only a week, and Fury accepted this. Clint and Laura were distraught, but I ignored their concerns. I had been home in time for Christmas, and that is what mattered.  
I look over at Mohamed Demir, a nuclear engineer from Turkey. This is one of the aforementioned new mission. I freed him from Iran where Al Qaeda was holding him, only for Turkey to not want him back due to some questionable actions during his time as a professor there. Thus, we have begun the long drive to a small town on the border between Ukraine and Romania, where his sister lives. We have a car two miles a head and two miles behind, serving as our escort since we passed through Georgia and were no longer operating undercover. Clint is in the rear vehicle with Coulson, likely forcing horrible dad jokes down the senior agent’s throat.  
We are twenty minutes past the city of Odessa, on a sharp cliffside hairpin turn, when I feel the front left tire of the SUV go out. I quickly correct the car, only to feel the two rear tires blow as well. Alerts splash across the dashboard, and the engineer is yelling behind me. The car begins to slide off the road, teetering on the edge of the cliff, but no amount of maneuvering will help us now. The car begins to roll. With each passing moment, the roof to the SUV grows closer to my head, and I try to keep my attention on Demir in the backseat. He is screaming, which is a good sign. It means he isn’t dead.  
The windows to the car have long since shattered, and I curl my arms up to protect my face as branches and rocks scrape against my skin.  
The car reaches the bottom of the rocky cliff, rocking on last time before settling into the dust. Demir is shouting in Turkish, a language I am not fluent in. We had established at our meeting, nearly a week ago, that our mode of communication needs to be Persian or Arabic. A gun shot ricochets off the hood of the car. I crawl into the backseat and see the engineer is largely unharmed, perhaps a broken arm. When this is over, I look forward to telling him ‘I told you so’ regarding the seatbelt. Wrinkle his shirt my ass. I kick open the already damage rear door with my feet, dragging him out behind me.  
“Stop crying and be quiet,” I hiss to him in Persian. I hear a crunch and pull him to the ground. A slug embeds itself into the car where we were moments before. I pull out my gun and keep the engineer behind me, making our way towards the part of the cliff that is not so steep. Hopefully, we can get to Clint and Coulson before this maniac kills us. The dried brush crunches under the engineer’s feet, and I resist the urge to just throw him over my shoulder, at least it would be quieter. But I think my ankle is broken and carrying him up a rocky mountain does not seem possible at the moment.  
The footsteps are getting closer. Running off is no longer an option. But hiding is. I tug on Demir’s hand and pull him into a crevice in the cliffside. He whines in pain as his broken wrist hits the rock. I ought to knock him out. Instead, I stand in front of him, gun drawn, and pray the dried thorn bush provides enough cover. As we crouch in our hiding spot, I survey the area. My stomach sinks when I see the ground littered with spots of blood, leading right to our location. I look back at the engineer and see his leg is bleeding. Any assassin worth his salt will see the trail. It is now a waiting game. Waiting to see who will get the first shot: me or him.  
“Tsk, tsk,” I hear, and see the glint of a metal arm in the late afternoon sun as it reaches down and touches the blood. My stomach drops. “Natalia, Madame B. would be so disappointed.” Always English with me. Never anyone else. “You think I didn’t recognize your hair? Please, _Doll_ , you and I have known each other far too long to just forget each other.” I fire my gun. The bullet embeds in his flesh shoulder, but he doesn’t even flinch. He just rises from the ground. “What is it you children used to call me? Soldat. It is cute, really.” He is toying with me. I fire again, this time the bullet goes into his gut and he winces. But my hands are shaking, that should have been a kill shot. I steel myself and shoot repeatedly. I miss his head. And the ones that hit his chest do nothing. He must be wearing a vest. I reach for my clip, only to realize it had fallen in the shuffle. I have a single bullet left. Firing will have to wait until he gets closer. The engineer is praying quietly. Telling him to be quiet at this point with be futile. The Winter Soldier already knows where we are. We are cornered animals. But that is when a creature is most dangerous, when it has nothing to lose.  
I feel it before I hear it. A bullet ripping through my lower abdomen, just above my hip. It burns unlike anything I have ever felt before. Like it is breaking down my serum. This bullet was made for me. He knew I would be the one escorting Demir. I stumble out of the crevice, firing my final round, but I am clumsy with blood loss. It clips his leg, causing little to no damage. The weapon slips from my hand. I fall to the ground, gripping my side. The orange dust fills my lungs and I cough heavily. I hear his heavy boots approaching, and he rather gently turns me over. As always, his face is hidden. He strokes my cheek.  
“I will leave you to suffer, Natalia. Do not worry, your engineer’s death was much faster.” He rises from his crouch next to me. “You always were one of my favorites.”

“Is she breathing?”  
I crack open my eyes. A blurry face hovers above me. Not him. He doesn’t have a face.  
“We’re going to get you out of here, okay? Helicopter is ten minutes out. You’re going to be okay.” I struggle to sit up.  
“Agent Romanoff, remain on the ground.” I need to check on Demir.  
“Nat, please, please stay still.” A hand squeezes mine. “I won’t leave you, okay? I’ll stay ‘til the end if that what it comes to. You won’t be alone.”

I blink open my eyes and look over, Clint is in his usual spot, detective book in hand. He has changed out of tactical gear and into civilian clothes.  
“Hi Clint,” I croak. He drops his book in surprise.  
“You’re not supposed to be awake yet. How are you?”  
“Sore.” I reply dryly. I go to sit up but collapse back in pain. That shouldn’t be. I should be healing by now. “How long has it been?”  
“Four days.” No. That can’t be. I should be almost completely healed. There should maybe be some small discomfort, like I had pulled a muscle. Not this. The heart monitor picks up my panic. “Nat, it’s okay. We’re in D.C. Dr. Fine is treating you.”  
“What’s wrong with me?”  
“You’re healing at a normal speed; we don’t know why. They are running tests but,” I think of the burning after the bullet cut through me. Him stroking my face. I want to scream. “You’re okay, you survived.”  
“It was him,” I whisper, scared to say it any louder.  
“Who?”  
“The Winter Soldier. The man who trained me, who helped train me, for honeypots.”  
“Nat, oh God,”  
“He shot straight through me, didn’t he? To kill Demir?”  
“Yes.”  
“If you offer to send psych in here, I’ll hurt you. If anyone else offers it, I’ll kill them. Do you understand?” I hope he catches the subtext. That he can tell them who it was who shot me, and our connection. But that I don’t want to have to listen to anyone else offer their condolences. I don’t want apologies for being shot by the person who helped create me. Frankenstein and his monster. Almost killed by my creator. It would have been poetic had I not held on to life so tight. “Ballistics?”  
“Three slugs, no rifling. Soviet-made. Completely untraceable.” I nod, my eyes feeling heavy. “This isn’t your fault, Nat. Okay?”  
“That’s bullshit, Clint. But I appreciate the sentiment.”  
“Natasha,”  
“Let me sleep, I’ve never had a normal bullet wound before. No wonder why you whine so much.” I give him a weak smile, letting my eyelids droop.  
“Okay Nat, okay.”

* * *

Two months later, on my first mission back, Clint diverts the quinjet from its usual path to D.C. He looks over at me nervously, running his hands through his hair every few minutes.  
“If you are kidnapping me, I am going to be very pissed.”  
“Someone would have to be crazy to take you.”  
“So, I reiterate, if you are kidnapping me, I am going to be very pissed. I considering forcing me on a vacation to be a hostage situation.”  
“This is just a quick pit stop, okay? Two hours, three max.” I nod and watch as the land below morphs into a careful grid of fields. There are pastures filled with cattle, and the occasional house. He casts me a final hopeful smile and we begin our descent. The gangplank drops and the air is quickly filled with humidity and honeysuckle.  
We step out onto a grassy knoll, and Clint takes a deep breath, a look of content passing over his face. The walk to the nearby house is quick. It is a Victorian farmhouse with a wraparound porch and green roof. There is a rather dilapidated barn to the right, and an endless driveway to the left. A heavy feeling settles in my stomach as I work out what this place is.  
“How many acres?”  
“Three hundred and fifty,”  
“Lots of privacy.”  
“Plenty, and a big house,” He unlocks the front door. The inside is charming. I wonder when he found the time to work on it. There is fresh paint on the walls, and the floor is recently stained. Clint is not one to hire somebody else for that sort of work. My kitchen is a prime example, and why I didn’t have one for three months.  
I wander upstairs and see six bedrooms. Two of which are en-suites. I head back down the steep stairs and find Clint out front. He hands me a beer and I sit down on the porch swing. The land seems to go on forever. And I can imagine him here. Doing projects with Cooper. Practicing archery in the yard. Nailing shingles onto the roof. A dog at his heals.  
“Nat,” I look over at him from my spot. He leans against the closest column, his bottle open but untouched.  
“It’s beautiful.” I push the swing lightly, “You told me on my first day that this is what you wanted. You got it, Clint. I’m so happy for you,” I smile at him.  
“Don’t do that,” he says, shaking his head.  
“Do what?”  
“Lie to me.”  
“Clint, I may not be the expert on emotions, but I’m fairly sure that people can feel more than one at a time. I’m sad you’ll be leaving, but you wanted this. You get to live out your dream. It’s amazing.”  
“You are the most selfless person I have ever met; you know that?”  
“What can I say? I’m a giver,” I kick my feet up onto the railing. The idea of being left alone in D.C. makes me sick. He won’t be next door. Neither will Laura, nor Cooper. It will just be me.  
“I have something for you,” he offers, bringing me out of my thoughts.  
“I just said I’m the giver,” I smirk. Clint pulls a rectangular black box from the pocket of his pants. I open it and a silver arrow necklace rests on a bed of silk.  
“You don’t have to wear it, I just thought.”  
“I love it, Clint. Really.” I stand up and sweep my ponytail to the side, “Put it on for me?” He clasps the necklace and it falls just past my collarbone. “I’m going to miss seeing your dumbass at my door each morning.”  
“Yeah, but you’ll run twice as far,”  
“And twice as fast.” I tease.  
“You’ll have a room here. It is the second en-suite. You’ll always have a place with us, no matter where we are. You’re a part of our family. You need to know; I’m not leaving you.” I nod, my throat feeling tight.  
“What made you choose this place?”  
“It is near Laura’s family, so Cooper can know his grandparents and cousins. But it is two hours away, so it isn’t convenient for them to visit.” He laughs and sets down his full bottle of beer. Neither of us have taken a sip of these supposed celebratory drinks.  
“You saved my life.” I look over at him, “You also saved whatever constitutes as a soul in me, if there is any of it left. Whatever remains, it is because of you.”  
“Tash,”  
“I love you,” I avert my eyes and bump his shoulder before hopping off the porch. “Now show me where you are putting the chickens, and then I want to see that pond I saw when we were landing.”  
The relief on his face and in his change of posture is palpable. I try hard to project that my happiness for him overshadows my hurt at his abandonment, while it is truly the other way around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this chapter! As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!! :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! So much fluff! This chapter has a lot of Laura and Nat's friendship in it, enjoy!
> 
> I've been getting a bit bored by all the fluff- so I am happy to announce we are about three chapters away from the car explosion!!

I load the couch into the back of the trailer, the August sun bearing down on my shoulders.  
“You could help,” I huff, looking over at Clint.  
“You told me I was getting in the way!”  
“Because you were, you weren’t following instructions,” I finish sliding the couch in next to the mattress.  
“Besides, you’re all supped up with a serum, my help isn’t needed,”  
“Needed versus appreciated,” I gather my hair on top of my head into a messy bun. “All we have left is the dining table and chairs,”  
“Oh, not coming. Sold them to the new owners with the apartment.”  
“So, this is it?” I step out of the U-Haul trailer.  
“Yeah,” Clint looks up at our building. Now just _my_ building. “They’re nice. I met them.” We both know I will probably never say a word to the couple. “The wife’s into running, if you need a new partner,”  
“If I need a new running mate, I’ll look to Maria.”  
“You can have friends outside of SHIELD,”  
“You’re right. I could.”  
“Well, we have a seventeen-hour drive ahead of us,”  
“I just have to lock up, I’ll be right down.” I jog up the stairs and go into my apartment, grabbing my duffel bag. I’ll be back. He won’t. After doing the six locks, I head back down to the parking lot.  
“Nat,” Clint begins.  
“Don’t get all weepy on me, Barton. Otherwise this is going to be a long road trip.” I toss the bag into the space behind the seats. “How’s Laura doing with her parents?”  
“Finishing up the last of the arrangements for the wedding, five weeks to go.” Laura had flown out a few days ago with Cooper, spending time at her family’s farm, the location of the aforementioned wedding.  
“You nervous?”  
“About getting married? No. Spending three days with her family? More than you can imagine. I can dismantle a ticking time bomb, but spending a few hours alone with her father,”  
“I’m excited to meet them,”  
“You mean you’re excited for them to meet you,” Clint pulls onto the highway. I flash him a grin. “They still haven’t fully accepted the secret government spy thing. They think its reckless to have this job and a family. Want me to become a cop. Laura’s sister, her husband owns an accounting firm. Offered me a job. Imagine their horror when they found out I never even started high school, let alone finished it.” Clint adds bitterly.  
“Don’t let them devalue you, you’re plenty smart.”  
“Easy for you to say, you’re a genius. What’s your IQ?”  
“Never been tested,” I shrug, “And your math skills are out of this world, way better than mine. And your spatial reasoning puts mine to shame.”  
“Great, I can puzzle someone to death.”  
“Stop that. I did not agree to this road trip just to listen to you self-deprecate for the whole time.”  
“Why did you agree to this?” Clint looks over at me.  
“I have a mission in Chicago next week. A short undercover stint before the wedding. Shorter travel time to come with you now.” I put my feet up on the dashboard, “So missions,”  
“I’m still your partner, Nat.”  
“I’m going to have a lot more solo missions though,”  
“You have just as high of a success rate alone as with a team. You don’t actually need me anymore.” No, but I want you. I like spending time with you. Working with you. I like having someone to bounce ideas off of and joke with. I say none of these things.  
“I really am just that good.”  
“Humble too.”  
“I’m the humblest person I know.” I look down at my nails. “You know Stark Industries?”  
“Of course. Ironman has caused a lot of extra paperwork for Sitwell. I listened to him complain about it nonstop last week when he revealed himself. You know I met him once? Back at that conference where you saved Hawley’s life.” I think of the short Italian man I saw him talking to, making the connection. “Anyway, why do you ask?”  
“Fury and I have been talking, he wants to send me undercover there. Keep any eye on Stark. He is kind of a loose cannon lately.”  
“Lately?”  
“More than usual,” I amend as we pass from the boarder of Maryland and into Pennsylvania, “It wouldn’t be until after Christmas, and I have to take the bar exam.”  
“Why?”  
“I’d be going in under legal,”  
“So, you’d basically be a glorified babysitter for the billionaire? Doesn’t seem quite like your thing,”  
“He’s interesting. I’d like to know what is going on. I’ve started researching him already. And Fury asked me to.”  
“Did he ask you or tell you?” Clint bites. I look over at him, trying to decide how to answer.  
“I do my job. That is my purpose. I am grateful he finds me useful enough to send me on so many missions. Please don’t make this into a thing,”  
“It’s just starting to feel like the only time you aren’t on missions is when you are too injured. You aren’t a machine, don’t let him treat you like one.”  
“My turn to drive, pull over at the next rest stop.” He doesn’t argue with me, instead pulling over a few miles later. While I get gas, he heads into the rest stop and returns with coffee and two doughnuts in the form of apology. The conversation stays off work for the remainder of the drive.  
We pull up to the farmhouse, both exhausted and disheveled. It is nearly midnight, but the porch light is on. Inside, Laura is waiting with two mugs of tea.  
“You made it,”  
“Barely. I considered killing him around hour twelve.” I sit down at the new kitchen table set. I look at the mug and see it is painted with my name. There is a stack of books, a glock, throwing knives, and ballet slippers as well.  
“My sister took us to a pottery painting place. I made one for each of us.” As I finish off the tea, I spy a black widow spider painted on the bottom.  
“It’s awesome, thank you,” I smile tiredly at my friend. Clint had forgone the tea and went straight upstairs where an air mattress had been inflated. “Actually,” I lick my lips, “I have something to give you.” My heart beats loudly in my chest as I unzip my bag. “It isn’t exactly a present,” I pull out the red notebook and present it to her.  
“Nat, is this?”  
“Yes. It has everything about my training, the trigger words, my education, medical history. The serum. Whatever someone needed to take me down.”  
“Why are you giving this to me?”  
“I can’t have it. And Clint shouldn’t either, in case something happens, and we are kidnapped, if a mission goes south. But with you, its safe. And I trust you.”  
“Oh,”  
“You don’t have to, I can bury or something. Put it in a safety deposit box or,”  
“No. Thank you. I’m honored that you would trust me with this. Really.” She places a hand over mine. “Thank you, Natasha.” Laura pours me another mug of tea, and one for herself as well. “When do you leave?”  
“Six o’clock.”  
“Shouldn’t you get some sleep?”  
“Probably.” I take a sip of the hot drink, “I’ll be gone before he wakes. I’m sorry for not saying goodbye. I’ll be here in time for the wedding, I promise.”  
“Is this a dangerous mission?”  
“No more so than the others. It might be a little messier. But nothing I can’t handle.”  
“There is very little that you can’t.” She takes a sip of her tea, “Will you remember to eat now that we aren’t there? I would hate to make Mr. Trays across the hall check in.”  
“He is ninety, you can’t have him looking in on me,” I roll my eyes.  
“Will you please make sure to eat? It could be peanut butter sandwiches for all I care, but after your time in Southeast Asia,” I had lost fifteen pound and looked skeletal.  
“I will remember to eat, I promise.”  
“I’ll hold you to it.” She takes both our mugs, “Now get some rest. There’s a second air mattress in your room.”  
“Thank you, Laura,” I pause at the edge of the kitchen.  
“I know, you don’t have to say it.” She smiles over her shoulder. “Goodnight.”  
“Goodnight.”

The restaurant burns brightly in front of me, giving off thick heat. I had worked methodically through this mission and am left with my final task. As I make my way back to the hotel that I have called home for the past few days, I am struck with the realization that I do not know how many people I have killed. That seems like something a person should know. However, for a majority of the world the answer would be zero. Maybe one.  
This hotel is nicer than my previous one, but no where near as good as the first few. Four weeks in Chicago in the blazing August heat. SHIELD could have at least sent me to a seaside city for this mission. It isn’t even as though I am undercover, just taking out bad actors in inconspicuous ways. The fire does not fall under inconspicuous, but it wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t question it. Clint would have. Following orders. It is what I am good at. I think of Clint giving me a hard time for agreeing to go undercover at Stark Industries. They are planting me at the end of March. For now, I am reading through all the material I may need to pass the California and New York bar exams. Part of Tony’s charm is switching between Los Angeles and New York City. So, I have to read both. I have already begun to be irritated by the man.  
A few days later, I finish off my mission and strip out of the nursing uniform. The man had been in the hospital for a routine stent check. I simulated a heart attack by inserting an air-filled syringe in the space between his big and second toe. No one will know the wiser and his successor and not nearly as dirty. It is funny, the Windy City did not get its name for actual wind speeds. In those terms, Boston is actually much windier. No. Chicago is called the Windy City because everyone thought the politicians were windbags. Somethings never change.  
I catch my flight to Des Moines, a middle seat with a coughing old man on one side, and a chatty woman in her thirties on the other. I race off the plane and to baggage claim, where I spot Clint waiting. He is holding my duffel, a smile on his face.  
“Long time, no see,” Clint shoulders my bag. “How was Chicago?”  
“Hot. How are things going?”  
“Better now that you’re here. Everyone’s very excited to meet you.”  
“Great. I hope you didn’t talk me up too much.”  
“Oh, I did nothing. That was all Laura.” I slump in the seat, knowing that everyone will be expecting someone far different than me.  
“Coulson’s going to be here, right? And Maria?”  
“Yes, they’ll get here tomorrow.”  
“Tomorrow was an option?” I tease. He frowns at me, “You’ve just done such a good job building everyone up. Wanted to savor the anticipation.”  
Twenty minutes later we pull up to a small farm. It is picture perfect. Clapboard white house with a black roof. A red barn in the back. There is even a white picket fence. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, sending blue dust in our wake. As Clint turns off the car, I spy a familiar toddler running towards the car.  
“Auntie Nat!” Cooper, now almost three, throws himself at me as I climb out of the truck. Laura is not far behind, following in jeans and bare feet.  
“Natasha, welcome! We missed you.” She resists pulling me into a tight embrace, and Cooper trying to climb me like a tree distracts from it. I swoop him up into my arms and he demands to be on my shoulders. I happily oblige. “Everyone is outback, dinner is almost ready. We’re having hamburgers. They’re looking forward to meeting you.”  
“How many is everyone?” I look to Clint. He gives me a tight smile and Laura smacks his arm lightly.  
“They aren’t that bad, he makes them out to be worse,” she assures me.  
“No one can sniff out a lie better than Nat,” he reminds his wife as she pushes open the front door. I let Cooper down as I pass through the threshold.  
The inside appears as though Pottery Barn came in and decorated itself. Every detail is accounted for. The drapery is the same pattern as the throw pillows, and the hardwood floors are so polished that I swear I can see my reflection. There is a framed photo of Laura and a girl who must be her sister, standing with respective horses and matching chaps. We step into the kitchen where I see a woman who looks like Laura pouring herself a glass of lemonade.  
“Mary, meet Natasha. Natasha, meet Mary.”  
“Hi,” the woman smiles brightly, “It is lovely to meet you,” She pulls me into a tight hug. I can almost hear Clint wince beside me. My arms remain stiff at my sides. I try counting back from one hundred. I’m fine. I’m at a farmhouse in Iowa. She is not a threat. She is not going to hurt me.  
“Mare, remember I told you that Nat’s not a hugger?” The woman releases me.  
“I thought you were exaggerating,” she turns to Laura. I back away from her slightly, wary she will hug again anyway. Clint brushes my shoulder, nearly touching, offering solace.  
“It’s nice to meet you,” I force out a smile. I try to figure out what it that Laura has said about me, as she has mentioned nothing about them, except that her sister has two kids.  
“Everyone is waiting outback. You know Grandad doesn’t like to eat this late,” she scolds Laura.  
“Oh, I hope you weren’t waiting on my account.”  
“We were.” Mary informs me, opening the French doors. Cooper grabs my hand and pulls me out to the backyard.  
The dining table for twelve is full, save for four seats, while there is a children’s table with two kids about Cooper’s age. Cooper releases my hand and runs over to the plastic primary colored picnic table.  
“These are my parents, Catherine and Michael,” Laura introduces, she continues to name her brother-in-law, a set of grandparents, and aunt and uncle, and a cousin. This is followed by the two little kids Cooper is talking to, Mary’s children.  
“It is nice to meet you all,” I offer demurely. Mary’s husband gets up to grab the burgers off the grill and soon everyone is eating.  
“So, Natasha, Laura tells us you work with Clint,” Catherine beings.  
“Yes, he’s my partner.” I reply, taking a bite of potato salad.  
“And you spend weeks at a time together? Just the two of you?” I nod, not liking where this is going. “Laura, you’re comfortable with Clint spending time with her? I wouldn’t want your father working so closely with someone who looks like that.”  
“Mom!” Laura warns. My cheeks burn with shame.  
“She hardly looks old enough to be out of high school. You aren’t the least bit concerned? Did he request her? Because mark my words, she is going to cause problems for your marriage.”  
“First, Natasha is an adult. She is twenty-five years old.” Clint glares at his soon to be mother-in-law. I can see her shock at having him speak up, “Secondly, she is my best friend, and more like my sister than anything. I have never been unfaithful to your daughter and never will be. She is the love of my life. Not only that, but Natasha is also one of Laura’s best friends. She is Auntie Nat as far as Cooper is concerned, and I trust you will think of her as a member of our family when Laura and I say, ‘I do’ in three days.” I duck my head, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes, and pretend to take interest in the pasta salad.  
“Who would have thought he knew so many words?” I hear the brother-in-law, Daniel, whisper. Clint kicks me before I can say anything.  
“Natasha was the first person I told I was pregnant. She spends every holiday with us. She is family.” Laura supports, looking around at her actual relatives.  
“Well, where are you from?” Laura’s cousin, a girl of about fifteen, asks.  
“Russia,”  
“Of course she’s from Russia. I bet she’s a commie too!”  
“I’m an American citizen. I can recite the entire Constitution from memory. Along with the Mayflower Compact, the Declaration of Independence, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and the Articles of Confederation. Please do not question my loyalty to this country.” This seems to silence them.  
“Well, I think she’s alright.” Laura’s grandfather states, giving me a smile. “Fought alongside the Russians in World War II. They know how to drink.” He raises a glass of whiskey in my direction.  
After dinner, I opt to play with the kids rather than converse with the adults on the porch. Everyone seems happier with this decision. Except Clint. Cooper is asleep in my arms as we head upstairs, and after I put him down in his room, Laura corners me in the hall.  
“I’m so sorry,” Tears well up in her eyes. “You know I know you would never, right? I trust you one hundred percent. I never even thought for a minute that you and Clint would,” I think of when I offered her and Clint sex when I first arrived. There is no way she never considered the possibility. “Natasha, really. You didn’t know at first, and I knew Clint wouldn’t take advantage of you, or hurt me like that. And now, well, I trust you. Okay? And anything any of them say, they’re wrong. You are family. Okay? You being here is more important than any other them. The longer I’m here, the more I think we should have just gone to a courthouse.” She huffs. I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “Thanks,” she smiles at me gratefully. “You can stay in my room with me if you’d like.”  
“What about Clint?”  
“He is staying in the guest room. Apparently, even though we have a kid together, we cannot sleep in the same room without being married.” She rolls her eyes and opens the door to her bedroom.  
It is sweet and shows signs of a girl transitioning into adulthood. Mixed in with the riding trophies and medals are posters of nineties bands and singers. A boombox is next to a pile of Beanie Babies.  
“I loved the Backstreet Boys and New Kids on the Block.” She confesses, gesturing to the posters. “And JT.” She pulls a trundle out from under her twin bed. “I’m sorry, I hope this is okay. At our house, things will be much better, I promise.”  
“This is great Laura, really. It is like a sleepover I never got to have.” She smiles.  
“Well, in that case,” she goes over to her window seat and pops open the top. She digs through, throwing stuffed animals out behind her. Then, she holds up an ancient bottle of vodka, three quarters full. “Want to paint each other’s nails?”  
Late the following evening, Coulson and Maria arrive, finishing off Clint’s half of the wedding party. Laura’s sister, a friend from college, and her fifteen year old cousin make up hers.  
On the morning of September 12th, it is sunny and cool. I straighten Clint’s tie and step back, looking at him.  
“I’d say you’re ready to get married.”  
“I feel sick.” He sits down in the chair.  
“It’s natural to be nervous.” I had spent last night googling what to say to a nervous groom the day of the wedding. “We have time. We aren’t in a rush.” He nods, running his fingers through his hair that we had finally gotten to stay flat. Maria and Coulson are already outside. It is a lie when I say we have time. We don’t. We have five minutes. “What is it that you are nervous about?”  
“What if she changes her mind?”  
“She won’t. She loves you.”  
“She’s too good for me.”  
“Yes,” I agree. He looks up at me.  
“You’re supposed to tell me she isn’t! That we are perfect for each other,”  
“You are perfect for each other. But she is too good for you, which is why you have to marry her before she figures it out.” He relaxes, smiling at me.  
“She’s too good for anyone.”  
“Yeah, she is.” I pull him up from the chair. “Now, do you remember your line?”  
“I do,” he jokes. My hid Adam’s apple bobs up and down.  
“Remember, you aren’t doing this for all the people out there. This is between you and her. A trauma nurse and an accident-prone secret agent. It is a modern love story.” I straighten my dress. “Now, let’s get your married.”  
We head down to the backyard and Clint looks to me for one last check. I brush imaginary lint off his shoulder to make him feel better.  
“Now, you’re perfect.” I smile up at him.  
“Thank you, thank you for being her Nat.”  
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I stand beside him in a sage green dress. Coulson stands next to me, and Maria next to him. The procession starts. The bridesmaids and then the flower girl, Cooper’s older cousin, throws too many petals in the beginning, and runs out before she even makes it halfway down the aisle. Cooper comes next, looking dapper is a suit that matches Clint’s. He spies his father and I, and begins to rush down the aisle, waving excitedly. Thank God Laura had the forethought to tie the rings to the cushion with ribbon. Laura steps into the aisle. She looks gorgeous in an ivory gown with a long train and off the shoulder sleeves. Cooper sits at my feet, watching his mother walk down the aisle. I tear my eyes away from Laura and to Clint. He is crying, but makes no move to wipe away his tears, scares of looking away for even a second.  
When Laura reaches the arch, and her veil is lifted, she smiles at her fiancé for the last time. She then reaches forward and pulls the handkerchief out of Clint’s pocket, dabbing at his tears. Clint laughs, and Laura folds it back up, returning it to its pocket.  
“And you thought it was pointless,” she scolds affectionately.  
The ceremony is beautiful and goes smoothly, Cooper even handed over the rings at the appropriate moment. The family of three walked up the aisle together, a beautiful start to their new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I excluded the reception, I got bored with the wedding and fluff lol  
> There was originally an incident where Daniel accidentally stabs himself with one of Nat's knives and that is the incident that Nat refers to when telling Wanda about the wedding, but the chapter was getting long!  
> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Next one will feature Nat undercover at Stark Industries in scenes that weren't in the movie!  
> For a timeline clarification, the wedding takes place September 12, 2009. So the events of Ironman took place a few months before, as Tony revealed himself the last week of July. Nat will be going undercover the last week of March 2010.  
> Also! If you read back to the conference where Nat saved Hawley's life, I do note Clint talking to Tony! ;)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for unhealthy coping mechanisms**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?! Another chapter?! After posting from Kindred yesterday? I know! Trying to get out some new chapters before I start my new job next week.  
> This really should have been two chapters, but it would have been too short lol so there is a dividing line  
> I hope you all enjoy! It is mostly fluff, next chapter will be too. But then... (Steeples fingers Mr. Burns style)  
> As always, comments and feeedback are appreciated!!

Following the wedding, I spend more time on missions than not. My clearance level is boosted to eight, matching both Maria and Rumlow’s. Though I have a feeling Maria’s eight is actually everyone else’s nine. I keep Laura’s advice in mind, being sure to eat at least once a day by setting timers on my phone. With my new clearance level came an office, which I detest. However, between missions, it serves as an excellent place to nap that isn’t the bunk room. The cruel words have tapered off for the most part, as have the stares. But I trust my fellow agents as much as I trusted my peers in the Red Room.  
I made it out to Iowa for Cooper’s birthday but missed Thanksgiving as I was tied up in Turkey, literally. The irony of being stuck in Turkey on Thanksgiving did not escape me. Now, as I pull up in the rental car at the farm, it is just a few days before Christmas. I only got back to the United States yesterday, after more than a week in New Delhi. In the past one hundred days, I had spent eighty of them on mission. Fury has given me a mandatory two weeks off. I stomp snow off my boots as I make my way up the front porch and walk inside. Burl Ives plays through the radio in the kitchen and I make my way in, seeing the family of three decorating cookies.  
“Auntie Nat!” Cooper cheers, jumping down from his chair. He is covered in green and red frosting. “We’re making cookies for Santa,”  
“Natasha, welcome back,” Laura smiles. Clint bumps my shoulder on his way to the fridge.  
“Maria told me you have been on more missions this month than we usually do in three.”  
“I like to stay busy.”   
“How many nights have you actually spent at home since we moved?”  
“I don’t see why that matters,” I sit down next to Cooper, who begins to direct me on where to put sprinkles. “I have been sleeping at least every two or three days. The location shouldn’t matter.”  
“Nat,” Clint admonishes.  
“Needs versus comfort, Clint. You’ve gone without sleeping on missions before. Don’t be a hypocrite.” Cooper finishes icing a snowman, and the red frosting scarf he tried to put on the cookie drips, making it look like his throat was slit. I stand up from the table. “I did bring presents if you two are done hovering.” Cooper perks up at the mention of presents.  
“Two more days, Christmas morning, bud.” Clint picks up Cooper, “Let’s get you a bath, I think there is more frosting on you than the cookies.”  
“This house is way too big.” Laura shakes her head, gathering up the decorating supplies, “There are so many empty rooms. I can’t begin to imagine what we are going to do with all this space.”  
“I’m sure you two will find a way to fill it up,” I tease, winking as I bite off the snowman’s head. Laura laughs and pulls leftovers out of the fridge. I begin to protest but am cut off, being served a hefty plate of homemade lasagna.  
Clint, Laura, and I settle in for a movie: Clint’s favorite Christmas classic, _Die Hard_. Laura’s bid for _A Christmas Story_ was nixed. Laura heads up to bed when the movie ends, leaving just Clint and I. Laura’s mother’s statements from the wedding linger in my head. Was it wrong for the two of us to be friends? He is a married man, is there some unspoken rule against this that I have not been informed of?  
“Nat, you’re in your head.”  
“Are we okay?”  
“Of course we are. Why? Is something wrong? What did I do?”  
“No! Nothing, you did nothing. I was just thinking about what Catherine,”  
“Do not even bother keeping anything that woman says in your head. For me, it goes in one ear and out the other.”  
“I would never want to hurt your relationship with Laura.”  
“Don’t be stupid, Tash.” I nod, feeling hurt by his dismissive attitude. The silence lingers for a moment, and I watch the DVD logo bounce around on the TV screen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I forget.” My chest burns. I forget you’re half a person. A quarter of a person. That you don’t feel things like me. That you don’t age like me. If he forgets, it means I am doing a good job pretending to be human. “You’re not being stupid. You’re being thoughtful and I’m being an ass. We are allowed to be friends. Girls and guys. I can love you and not be in love with you.”   
“Okay.” I rest my head on my knees, “How was your Thanksgiving?  
“I think yours was better than mine.” He laughs, seeming as grateful for the subject change as I am.  
“I was being held captive in the desert.”  
“Like I said, better than mine. Your company was probably friendlier too.”

I step into my apartment for the first time in six weeks. A layer of dust has settled on top of everything, and the air smells slightly musty.  
After New Years on the farm, my supposed forced vacation is cut short as I am sent to investigate a string of killings in Northern Italy and Spain. Lazy mobsters not caring about getting caught. However, one of them had been rather nimble, and resulted in us vaulting between rooftops like we are superheroes or some type of vigilante. My back muscles scream.  
I begin to fill up the bathtub with steaming water and lavender oil. I am digging through my closet for my favorite slippers when a dent in the wall catches my eye. I had done that. Slamming my head back against the wall. Trying to drown out Madame B’s voice after I killed her. _Marble. Sloppy. Kill her. You are a Black Widow_. _My favorite. Little Spider_. _You pleased them, Natalia. I am proud of you._ Proud of you. Proud of you. I dig my fingers into my scalp. No. I head into the bathroom and strip out of my sweats, the hunt for slippers abandoned. The hot water allows my muscles to finally release and I shut off the tap. But Madame B’s voice continues. _Your loyalty was never required. Only your compliance_. No. She does not have control over me anymore. I killed her. I am in control. I think of the gentle numbness that would come over me after water torture. As the thoughts dulled and the world quieted. They were in control, only giving me that pleasure as they deemed fit.  
I slip underwater, my fingers wrapped around the lip of the tub. I blink up at the bright bathroom light shining down on me and close my eyes. Now matter how long I stay under; I will not die. The serum will fight it, force me to live. I can stay beneath the surface, letting everything slip away, with the knowledge that I will not die. My heartbeat quickens and my lungs begin to scream. I force them to obey me, to react to logic and reason. Their obedience is much better than any softness this watery bed of delusions may offer. This is the ultimate control. Control over something so primal as blood rushing through your veins or air filling your lungs. Control over one’s own faculties.

* * *

It is mid-March when I head out to California, days after our Defection Day celebration. Clint had thrown the event and attempted to surprise me with his visit, but just the week before he had been checking rather obsessively about my schedule and when I would be heading out to Malibu.  
On my first day, I am introduced to a robust department that is in panic mode. Everyone is shouting about certain legalities and where blame truly lies.  
“There was a bombing,” my new boss, Melissa, explains. She is young for her position, ten years my senior, but the stress of the job has clearly begun to wear on her. “It was an old bomb, from before we stopped manufacturing. We didn’t even sell it, it changed hands a number of times. We’re trying to figure out if we are liable.”  
“What happened? Where was it?”  
“A small Eastern European country, Sokovia. It hit an apartment building. At least a hundred people are dead. We’re investigating claims that there was a second bomb that hasn’t gone off, but we’re pretty sure that isn’t true. Stark bombs never fail, or they never did, before we stopped manufacturing them.” She gives me a tired smile, “That is not your concern though, you specialize in civil law, correct?”  
“Yes, ma’am.”  
“You’ll get to know Mr. Stark’s PR team very well,” She leads me over to my desk. I take a few items out of my purse. A picture of me with a dog, it is one of the bomb sniffers that SHIELD has, but here serves the purpose of being Frankie, the lovable childhood friend that is with my parents at their estate in the Berkshires. There is also a faux potted plant, Natalie, much like Natasha, has a black thumb, and color coordinated pens, highlighters, and sticky notes. A lot went into this cover, it could last nearly a year if we aren’t lucky. If it approaches nine months, if Stark even has that long based on the amount of poison in his bloodstream, then we go in hard. Until then, this is the most normal job I have ever had. It reminds me vaguely of my mission in Australia in 2004. Though I hope, for Stark’s safe, that it ends differently.  
The life I build here is going to be the stuff of nightmares. Melissa and I will just happen to go to the same spin studio on Saturdays, so I can build a relationship with my supervisor. I’ll even suggest we go to this juice bar on the corner after. Pepper Potts and I will be in the same Pilates class, though based on her schedule, I believe this effort is futile. As I finish going through the orientation videos on the computer, I spot someone approaching out of the corner of my eye. One of my new coworkers. He misbuttoned his shirt this morning, and despite being three o’clock, he is yet to notice. He nicked his chin shaving this morning, enough to bleed, but not enough to warrant a Band-Aid. Most noticeably, there is a tan line where his wedding ring should be. He has likely been kicked out by his wife and is sleeping in his car. If her were staying in a hotel room, his shirt would be pressed, and if staying with a friend, he likely would have taken the time to button his shirt correctly. I spy a parking ticket on his desk. That explains his rushed state.  
“Natalie,” I turn and smile at him, pretending as though I have just noticed his approach, “We are all going out for drinks after work. Would you like to come?”  
“Of course, sounds like a fun. I can’t wait,” He drums on my desk and gives me the bar’s name before heading back to his workstation.  
This becomes my life for two months. Two months of being painfully normal. Talking at the bubbler. Pilates on Mondays. Drinks on Thursdays. Spin on Saturdays. The routine is constricting at best. I am given an escape on Easter. A long weekend to visit the Barton’s, this is a luxury that most missions don’t afford. Other than this little breather, I am stuck.  
The days are predictable to a fault. Like on Wednesdays Dave is late because it’s his day to take the kids to school, which mean the nine o’clock meeting starts at 9:07. Every other Friday, we are let out at 4:30 like this is some surprise and special treat. It isn’t a surprise if it happens on a schedule, Melissa. And everyone acts surprised when they find out that Paul’s wife Susan kicked him out, they are even more surprised when they discover he has been sleeping in his car because he still has hope that she will take him back, sleeping in the driveway every night. I figured this out on the first day.  
Finally, on a day in early May, there is a change. Tony Stark is giving the company to his personal assistant, Pepper Potts. They need a notary public. After everything I went through studying laws in not one, but two states, and it is something that took me five minutes to complete that gets min in with Stark. I can already tell this man is going to be the death of me.  
After kicking Happy’s ass in boxing, something I mastered before most people learn cursive, I have caught the man’s attention.  
He immediately requests my presence and assistance. My dreary desk in legal is no more as I take on the role of his personal assistant. I am to be available to Ms. Potts as well, though I doubt she has been informed of the arrangement.  
My suspicions are proved correct in Monaco, where Tony causes more trouble than he is worth. The restaurant was easy enough to brush off, but the race car incident made me want to rip his head off. To make matters worse, he left me in Monaco. He took the private jet with Happy and Pepper, leaving me to deal with this mess by myself.   
When I arrive back in the States, Pepper begins to direct me with a PR expertise that I admire. Were I not undercover, I could see us becoming friends, a claim I do not make lightly. Everything seems to have blown over, and for a moment, things died down into a calm. For thirteen days, he tinkered in his lab and I assisted Pepper with running Stark Industries.  
Now, it is May 29th. He is on the verge of breaking down, the reason I am here. To be here when he falls. For SHIELD to catch him and ensure he does not shatter, only crack. Coulson and Fury are on standby, waiting for my word.  
It is to my great surprise, that when he asks me that question, I give him an honest answer. He likely takes it as me insinuating that I would be sleeping with the hottest man I could find, but I imagined being on the farm with the Barton’s, eating Laura’s homemade yellow cake and chocolate frosting, while Cooper plays on my lap, and Clint tells a horribly inaccurate story of one of our missions. It is to my great disappointment, but not surprise, that rather than doing what he wanted, he throws a party that would put Gatsby to shame.  
I fire the gauntlet at the ice sculpture, reveling in its power. Though I try to remain flirty and daunted. Inside, I am picking it apart, trying to imagine how it works. Pepper is none too pleased. The party ends in disaster, as I imagine it would.  
The next morning, I take immense pleasure in stabbing him in the neck. He had been difficult from the start. A petulant child who felt ignored and had his every whim indulged. I have read his file, and feel little sympathy. A loving mother, a doting butler, a neglectful father. Fancy boarding schools, attending one of the top universities in the world. Oh, to be young Tony Stark. The only reason I managed to not kill him was the sense of kinship I had over surviving captivity and torture. It is bound to make anyone a little reckless, a little stupid.  
Working under Pepper is a dream. It is easy and predictable without being boring. I could not do this for months on end, but it is not unpleasant. One week later, my mission is complete, and I almost feel sorry for it to be over.  
When I arrive back at base, I am surprised to encounter Clint. He begins to tell me about this man who thought he was a Norse god and a magic hammer.  
“Aliens, Tash. Remember what I said?”  
“The guy isn’t a god, Clint. He is someone who took too much acid.” He continues to argue with me and crashes on my couch for a few days before heading back to Iowa. No one has slept in the guest room since Yelena, and it seems as though Clint doesn’t want to be the one to change that.  
I have just returned from getting my nails done with Maria when I receive a surprising text. Pepper. She is in D.C. and has asked to meet for lunch.  
I arrive at Pepper’s hotel, the Jefferson, and am shown to the restaurant on the premises. She smiles brightly when she sees me and looks far less stressed than the last time, I saw her.  
“Natalie, it is great to see you.”  
“Natasha,” I correct, “It only seems fair you know my real name.” I take a seat at the table.  
“Yes, right. You aren’t actually a lawyer.”  
“No, I am. I passed the bar exam right before coming into your employment.” I order a glass of chardonnay “I was surprised to hear from you, mostly surprised that you had my number.”  
“Tony got it for me. I’m sorry, I had no way of contacting you.” She takes a sip of her champagne. I hold back a bite of it begin intentional that she couldn’t contact me. You generally do not reach out to someone who has deceived you for months unless you want to harm them. But my curiosity had gotten the best of me. “I wanted to thank you.” This is a first. My mind reels, trying to figure out how to respond. “You saved his life. Without you, he would be dead. I was hoping we could get a fresh start.” I blink. “I’m sorry, this was fairly unprofessional. A fruit basket and a bottle of wine would have been acceptable.”  
“No, I have just never been thanked before. I wasn’t expecting it. It is nice, thank you.”  
“My job, it doesn’t leave a lot of time for socializing,” She explains. “I imagine yours doesn’t either. You worked at Stark Industries for three months. It must be hard to maintain relationships,”  
“I am fine.” I sit up straighter.  
“No, of course you are. I only mean, you seem like, like me, that you could use a friend.” We pause our conversation to order salads and give the waiter our menus.  
“Why would you want to be my friend?” I ask once he has walked away. “You don’t know me.” There’s the reason why she would want to be my friend. She doesn’t know me. “I’m an assassin. You do know that, right?”  
“Yes,” She flushes a little, and I think perhaps she thought I was just a normal agent, but to her credit, she does not seem deterred. “Both of us are busy women who do not have time for weekly wine nights or girls’ trips. Sometimes, I imagine, it is nice to talk to someone who you don’t know through work. Well, we met through work, but not in the same sense.” She dabs at her lips with her napkin. It strikes me now, that Pepper Potts seems incredibly lonely. The only people I saw her spend time with during my employment existed in Tony’s sphere. Everyone I interact with exists only within SHIELD.  
“I am willing to give it a try.” I finish off the glass of wine. Pepper grins.  
“In that case, I will order a bottle of the good stuff for us to share.” A glass is filled for each of us and she holds hers up. “To new friends,” She gives me a small smile. I am astonished to realize I am open to the possibility.   
“To new friends,” I agree, and the gentle clink of our glasses rings out into the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked this chapter! We are seeing more and more of the Natasha we know and love! (The good and the bad) The start of her Pepper's friendship too! Pepper proposing it like a business proposition, Natasha being all calculating and trying to figure out why... awww  
> Any who, I will try to get the next chapter of Kindred out by tomorrow, thank you for reading!! :)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay, I have been absolutely insanely busy! This is a bit of a filler chapter, as based off the timeline and how the chapter ends, you all know what is coming!! I hope you all enjoy! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

I arrive at the Barton farm with an injured and grumpy Maria in tow. Her shoulder is in a sling and wrapped in bandages. I want to say I told you so one more time, but the look of murder in her eyes warns me that it is not advisable.   
We are arriving just a few days shy of my twenty-sixth birthday, known to most as the Fourth of July.   
“Auntie Nat!” Cooper, now three and a half, launches himself off the front porch. “I can write my name!” He announces proudly. “And I know Mommy’s phone number,”   
“Good for you, little man,” I praise.   
“Hi Maria,” He looks up at the agent with wide eyes. “If you’re hurt, Mommy can stitch you up like she does Auntie Nat,”   
“Thanks, kid.” Maria replies gruffly and looks up at an amused Clint who waits on the porch.   
“Nat, welcome! And you brought company.”  
“I was on my way and she phoned for backup.” She shoots me a glare.   
“Agent Hill, phoning for backup?” Clint’s eye glint.   
“Next time, I’m letting them kill me. I hate you both.” She stalks up the porch steps, likely to receive proper first aid from Laura. My impromptu field bandages will hardly keep infection at bay.   
“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Clint sings behind her, throwing Cooper over his shoulder. The toddler bursts with laughter.   
Upon entering the house, Clint puts down his son, who darts over to an Ironman coloring book. He does this with intense concentration, trying hard to stay within the lines.   
“Lemonade?” he offers, leading me to the kitchen. The room is a mess, it appears as though Laura was in the midst of preserving strawberries when injured Maria interrupted her. I take my tall glass of lemonade. The drink is cool and refreshing, the opposite of the weather outside.   
“So, what’s up?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You have been running your fingers through your hair since we walked into the kitchen, and you keep flexing you trigger finger. You only do that when you are hiding something.” He rushes to hide his hand. I roll my eyes and open up the fridge to search for leftovers. “Oh,” I straighten up.   
“What?”  
“Laura’s pregnant.” I close the fridge door, my quest for a snack abandoned.   
“How did you figure it out? Laura is going to kill me. She wanted us both to tell you,”  
“She has the spicy pickles she ate during Coop’s pregnancy in the fridge.”   
“So not my fault?”  
“You were going to crack in the next two minutes if I didn’t figure it out. But sure. Not your fault.” I smile at him, “Congrats, Clint.” I ignore my true feelings and focus on growing the most productive one- being happy for my best friend.

For Cooper’s fourth birthday, the Barton’s visit D.C. He tries to go into their old apartment and demanded to be let in. Cooper’s current fascination is with airplanes, so his day, and thus ours, is spent at the Air and Space Museum. There is a section on Ironman that makes me roll my eyes, but Cooper’s excitement at sticking his head through the hole on an Ironman cutout is infectious. During dinner, he talks to his baby sister that is set to be born in February. He places his lips close to Laura’s stomach, narrating the entire meal and telling her about our day.   
“I don’t want her to miss out on anything,” Cooper explains to me seriously, “You know she is going to be my best friend?”  
“I thought I was your best friend?” I put my hand to my chest, mock offended.   
“Auntie Nat, you’re a grownup,” He makes a face, “But as far as grownups go, you’re awesome!” He dips one of his chicken fingers in ketchup. Clint and Laura look at their son open affection, listening as he begins to talk about his preschool friends and his favorite birthday presents.

Life continues in this fashion. I throw myself onto every mission I can. Clint sets up a schedule with SHIELD where he is active duty one week a month, being here in D.C., while another week he is on call but out at the farm. I ignore the concerned glances from Coulson when I get back from missions, only to go out again two days later. The clothes I wear on said missions has changed significantly. I have gone from honeypots to espionage. Or as I joked to Clint, a different way of whoring myself out. He did not find this funny. I now wear gowns and designer dresses. My income has ticked up. I was able to keep the money I made while working for Stark, along with stock options. It is now possible to start building up a network of safehouses, I even begin to dabble in commercial real estate. There is a property I rent to a sweet little bakery, and I think of what their reaction would be to knowing that their landlord is the deadliest assassin in the world.  
Shopping had become easier as well. I had started setting timers for making decisions, based off price. But as I sit on my couch, drinking hot tea, it takes only moments of deliberation for me to order a pair of shoes. November and December had gone by in a blur, now mid-January, Laura is nearing the end of her pregnancy with their little girl.   
I spent New Years Eve in New York City at the Tower. There was a lavish party with canapes, caviar, and champagne. I hugged the wall all night, confirming what I already knew, I hate parties. Hopefully, I was such a bore, that I will not be invited again. Pepper, despite her insistence at our lunch that she had no friends, seemed to be acquainted with everyone at the event.   
But that was more than three weeks ago. I shared every detail with Clint, telling him about the party and the missions I go on. Manicures with Maria. Target practice with Coulson. What I don’t mention is my new side hobby: trying to find the Winter Soldier. I had built up a steady casefile, though it holds nothing of substance. However, I have come to determine, with a great deal of certainty, that he killed John F. Kennedy. Clint, were he to find out, would be rightfully concerned. This is not a person I should be researching alone, or at all. He is a ghost story to most of the intelligence community. For those who know he exists, me looking into him would put a target on my back. Clint doesn’t need that target as well. Not with Laura, Cooper, and a baby on the way. I keep the file in my fireproof safe under the floorboards.   
It is a few days later, while I am on my way out to Iowa to meet my niece, that I get a hit on the soldier’s location. I could either fly out to Moldova and find him or go meet Lila Alison Barton. My hesitation lasts only a moment. It is no longer a string I want to pull on. If Clint being involved could hurt his family, then my being involved could as well. I finally have something to lose. With some reluctance, I hide the file in my apartment and head to Iowa.   
I arrive at the farm just two days after Lila is born and am instantly smitten. She looks identical to Laura, down to the doe eyes.   
“Auntie Nat, meet Lila Alison Barton. Lila, meet your Auntie Nat,” I hold the newborn close to my chest. My heart fills with love. I search for a trace of envy and find none. Instead, I feel nothing but warmth.   
“She is perfect,” Her little bow lips begin to suck on my finger.   
“She loves you already,” Clint looks over my shoulder at his daughter. Cooper climbs up on the couch next to me. Her lashes seem so long, they could brush her cheeks.   
“Now, we are a family of five.” Laura sits on the coffee table with a fresh bottle. I give her a small smile in thanks, grateful for my found family.   
After being on the Barton Farm for a little over a week, that I receive a call from Coulson. It is not surprising, as I am on call, ready to go at a moments notice. The location gives me pause. The Arctic.   
Clint, on paternity leave, does not join us when Coulson lands on the farm. He meets Lila and has coffee, but soon, we are in the air.   
“You know, I thought invading Russia in winter was bad, but this is worse,” I look over at the senior agent. “What are we doing that is so top secret that you couldn’t tell me over a secure line?”   
“They think they found him,” Coulson’s cheeks are flushed with excitement.   
“Found who?”   
“Captain America, Steve Rogers. He is an American hero, a world hero.”   
“Why do we have to be there?”  
“He’s an enhanced individual, we are there for observation and removing him from the ice.”   
“Does he have any family? Anyone we can contact about funeral arrangements?”  
“Peggy Carter, they were close. His best friend, Bucky Barnes, he had a sister. I think she might still be alive. The rest of the Commandos are dead.”  
“I learned about him in the Red Room,” I answer before he can ask, “He made me the woman I am today,” I add bitterly. The stupid serum. It is not his fault, really. I have a knockoff. It is hard to imagine what the real serum would have done to me. I can’t really wrap my head around the idea, what I would be like. What my personality would be, if I had a full range of emotions, full autonomy.   
“That’s why I volunteered us for this mission.” Coulson nods.   
“You volunteered us to go to the arctic in the middle of February?” I gape.   
“I wanted to go; it is an honor to be the one to bring Steve Rogers home. But I picked you to come along because I thought it might bring you a sense of closure.” Coulson looks at me with a kind fatherly expression.   
“So, you’re a fan of Captain America?” I ask, taking the subject away from myself. It annoys Clint when I do this, but Coulson doesn’t seem to mind.  
“I have his trading cards, vintage original. Mint condition.”   
“You must be excited that we have found him.”  
“And that it was us that found him.” I head back to the bunks in the quinjet. This is one of the models for longer trips. It debuted with the helicarrier two years ago. I had only been on the helicarrier twice since then, but Fury seems smitten.   
Coulson wakes me a while later to switch, and as we near the arctic circle, I rouse him. We pull on the same uniforms we used when taking down the Red Room, the weather being quite similar.   
“Agent Romanoff, are you ready?” His voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I can’t do that here. Not in front of my boss, and certainly not without Clint to bring me back.   
“Yes, sir.” We step out into the icy tundra where a crew of scientists are waiting for us. They start shouting instantly, a rather fervent reaction to finding a long dead soldier.   
“One at a time,” Coulson commands, surveying the group, “And while we walk towards the tents,”   
“He’s alive,” One scientist, who seems to be in charge, breaks through.   
“He has been trapped in the ice for seventy years. How on Earth is he alive?” Coulson stares in disbelief, his eyes flitting over to the area marked with tape. “If he is alive, why is his jet still in the ice?”  
“We were conducting a thermal scan and his body is giving off trace amounts of heat, with some listening equipment, we were able to make out a faint heartbeat of approximately two beats per minute.” We step inside the tent, nearly thirty degrees warmer than the frigid arctic air.  
“So, what you’re saying, is that Captain Rogers is alive?”  
“Yes sir. But thawing him out, there are so many things that could go wrong. There is also the matter of the bomb.”  
“I want Fury on line one, Fine on line two. No one else is to come or leave this site. Am I understood?”   
“Yes sir.” The scientist begins to set up the phones for Coulson and I follow him out towards the location of the plane. It is suspended in ice, frozen in time. I snort at my own joke.   
“How long ago did you find him?”  
“Two days ago. We called you as soon as we saw the plane. I used to work for SHIELD before I started studying weather patterns in the arctic.” The hardened look in his eyes informs me not to ask why he left SHIELD or how he ended up in one of the coldest places on Earth.  
Within twelve hours, a team of twenty has arrived on the tundra. Bomb specialists, doctors, historians, and agents all crowd the small plane.   
“Do you think he is going to be an old man?” I turn to Coulson, “Or will he be the same age as when he went under?”   
“I don’t know.”  
“This is like Disney’s frozen head. Captain America mastered cryostasis.”   
“Romanoff, he is an American hero. Show some respect.” I flinch at the rebuke, curling my toes. He looks away from the site briefly to glance at me in concern. In the past, the slightest scolding has been enough to send me reeling. I straighten my back, and I see something akin to pride shining in Coulson’s eyes.  
Something that appears to be a high-tech coffin is unloaded from a waiting quinjet. It takes six people to carry it out. The casket glows blue. Scientists begin to crowd us once more, and others begin to chip away at the ice.   
“We are going to take him out of the plane and put him into the cooling chamber,” a new scientist begins to explain, pointing to the coffin, “Until we find a safe way to defrost him, if that is at all possible. But we have determined that the surrounding area is stable enough to take Captain Rogers out.” There is a groan of metal and I watch as the plane opens up. The cooling chamber, as it was referred to, is brought closer. The medical team runs in once it is deemed safe and carries the frozen super soldier out. He is stuck in a sitting position and has to be placed on his side to be put into the casket. Another man steps out with his shield, the iconic disk, emblazoned with a star.   
Coulson begins to inspect the weapon with barely concealed glee. My curiosity getting the better of me, I climb onto the plane. This is where Steve Rogers believed he was going to die. Dying to save the rest of the world. On the dashboard, I see something that the medical team missed. A golden compass is propped open with the picture of a woman. The last thing he saw, his sweetheart. She probably died believing he was gone. I click the compass shut, feeling like I am intruding, and put it in my jacket pocket.   
“Romanoff, let’s go. We are escorting Captain Rogers home. Our mission has not changed!” I disembark from the plane running to catch up to Coulson. “You shouldn’t run in weather this cold. Your lungs will actually explode.”   
“Mine won’t,” I look at the Captain Rogers as they finish hooking him up to monitors and close the lid. “How long do they plan on keeping him frozen?”   
“As long as it takes.” We climb onto the quinjet and I sit in the pilot’s seat.   
“Here,” I hand the compass over to the senior agent, “I found this open on the dashboard. It must be important to him.” He clicks it open and closes it, a sad smile spreading across his face. “Do you know her?”   
“Thank you, Natasha. I’m sure Captain Rogers will appreciate it.” He sits down beside me in the copilot’s seat. “You saw the man, not the myth, when picking up this compass. Everyone else, myself included, was too focused on him and the shield.” With a press of a button, the quinjet begins to rise into the air.   
“He’s more than what they made him to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Unfortunately, I don't think I will have the next chapter of Kindred out tomorrow, it is looking more like this weekend, but I will try to get it out before then! Thank you all for reading!! :)   
> (Hope you're all as excited for the next chapter of Volition as I am!!)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for drug use**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you are doing well! Hope you enjoy this chapter! As always, comments and feedback are always welcome and appreciated, thank you!

I am sitting in my office when there is a knock at the door. Looking up, I am surprised to see Clint.  
“What are you doing here?” It has been three weeks since we found Captain America, and I am just finishing up the procedure for waking him up. Not the science part, but how to stop him from panicking upon learning it is not 1945, but 2011.   
“We have a quick mission. You, me, and Maria.”  
“You’re supposed to be on paternity leave,” I remind him.  
“I’m pretty sure Laura called Maria to get me out of the house.” He looks around my office, “Nice digs.”  
“Ugh, don’t start with me. They say because of my clearance, I am officially a senior agent, which means I have to have an office for meetings.”  
“You have higher clearance than me now, wild.”  
“Which is why you don’t know that Captain America is alive and in New York right now.”  
“Yeah, I know.” He waves me off. “Come on, we have to brief for the mission.”  
“You missed the training session for the helicarrier.”  
“I’ll make it up.” He shrugs as we knock on the door to Coulson’s office.  
“Barton, how is Lila?” Phil asks as he opens the door.  
“Amazing. Already smarter than me.”  
“That’s a pretty low bar, Clint.”  
“Missed you too, Maria.” Clint offers me the chair, but I refuse, standing with my back against the wall. He frowns at me but takes the seat.  
“Barton and Romanoff, you have an assassination assignment, Hill is serving as extraction and running ops. All the information you need is in this file.”  
“Why are we killing them?” I ask. Clint whips his head around to look at me, and then back at Coulson.  
“They killed six soldiers in a combined US and UK convoy transporting a nuclear reactor out of Crimea. If you can get any additional data on their contacts while you are taking them out, great. If not, that’s fine.” I flip through the file I was handed, “Romanoff, did you hear me? You will not be punished if you are unable to get additional information.”  
“Yes sir.” I nod.  
“You know, Fury has moved to digital,” Maria adds, gesturing to her tablet.  
“What can I say? I’m nostalgic. Now, the jet leaves in three hours. Go over schematics, come up with a plan.”  
“That’s it? You don’t have anything else for us? Just kill them and don’t die?”  
“To be fair, he never said we couldn’t die,” I add to Clint.  
“You three are formidable, I didn’t think you required hand holding.” Coulson shoos us out of his office and Clint corners me in the hall.  
“What?” I ask, looking up at him, “We have a lot to do,”  
“You questioned Coulson’s orders, you asked why we were doing this.” I think back.  
“I guess I did.”  
“Nat, I’m so happy for you. Don’t you see how far you’ve come?”  
“Clint, let’s not do the sappy thing at work. After the mission, deal? You and I can go out for beer and burgers or something.” I pull my long hair back into a ponytail. “Come on, let’s go pick out our weapons.”  
I sit beside Clint on the quinjet as we fly to Prague. He is going over the case again, frowning.  
“I don’t like this plan.”  
“Just go with it and stop being such a baby.” I unzip the bag and pull out my sequined dress.  
“Promise me you’ll be careful.”  
“I’m always careful.”  
I sit in the VIP section with the two men. I had charmed my way in twenty minutes ago and we shared some cocaine. It was an excellent way to build their trust. We make our way to the dance floor and the grind up against me on either side. Both are equally enrapt. They are young for war lords, and I wonder briefly if it is a family business.  
“You boys want to make tonight interesting?” I ask and pull out a small sheet of paper from my clutch. I tear off three pieces and slip it onto my tongue. They do the same. The paper quickly disintegrates, and we continue to dance. The lights become brighter, and I can feel the music in my bones, like it lives there. Concentrate, Natasha. I drag the two of them towards the bar and I think I see Clint. Someone tugs the three of us forward, and I am sitting amongst cases of liquor. On either side of me, the two of them begin to seize, red foam coming out of their mouth.  
“Whoopsie,” I giggle and look for something to clean up the mess.  
“Tash,”  
“Clint!” I jump up and throw my arms around him. “Hi!”  
“Yes, you are.”  
“I killed them,” I step back from him, pulling off my heels. “I did good, right?” He cringes as I ask the question. “Bad?” I look down at the bodies, now still.   
“No, you completed the mission. How long until this drug wears off?”  
“I don’t know. We could go dance, stay until then. I like the lights.”  
“Yeah, well if you saw yourself right now, you’d be pissed if I let you out in public.” He tugs me out of the room.  
“I was so scared taking the drug, but everything is like clouds.” I laugh. “Do you ever feel like you can feel the air just touching you? Like everything in the world is touching each other at once through the molecules of the atmosphere.”  
“Sure thing,” He opens up the side of a white flower van.  
“Maria! We did it,” I climb into the car. “It was gross. I think blood came out of their ears. Did you see that?” I look to Clint. He reaches forward with his sleeve and wipes of something from my face.  
“How long until she comes down?”  
“I don’t know, she just took a lethal dose of an experimental party drug.”  
“I don’t feel so good,” I frown and turn to my best friend.  
“I need more info than that. What doesn’t feel good?” My stomach gurgles.  
“Fuck!” Maria howls, “Jesus Christ, Natasha,”  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” My lip trembles.  
“It’s okay, Nat. You’re okay. You completed the mission. You can relax.”  
We get back to the hotel and I wander through the lobby. There is a floor to ceiling tank with an aquarium of fish. I watch as a clown fish floats around, following him from one end of the tank to another.  
“Let’s get up to the hotel room so you can sleep it off. Maria went to get us some food.”  
“She’s mad at me.” He takes my hand and leads me towards the elevator.  
“She just wasn’t expecting you to blow chunks all over the car. She’s not mad.”  
“I feel.” I look over at him. “Is this what it’s like all the time? How do you do things? It is all so distracting,” I stare at myself in the mirrored walls of the elevator. My mascara is smudged beneath my eyes, and my dress is torn. “Do you ever wonder what I would be like?”  
“What do you mean?” He pulls back the covers to the bed, helping me in.  
“If I didn’t have the serum and the blocks,” I stare at him. “If I was a real person, the one my parents had, not the one the Red Room made. What do you think I would be like?”  
“I think you’d still be you, Nat. You’re not the serum.” He pulls up the sheets. I blink sleepily at him.  
“You’re sweet, I love you. Thank you for not killing me,” I stretch, “That would have sucked.”  
“I love you too, Natasha. Get some sleep.”

I wake up in the morning with my mouth feeling like it has been stuffed with cotton. My head feels like it weighs thirty pounds, and the last thing I remember is snorting a line of cocaine. I must have completed the mission. I get up from the bed and walk into the living area. I am still in the dress from last night. Maria and Clint are sitting with bagels and coffee.  
“Morning,” I steal Clint’s coffee and curl up on the couch.  
“Hi,” They both stare at me, “How are you feeling?” He hands me a bagel, and I tear off a piece.  
“Like someone dropped an anvil on my head.” I yawn.  
“Do you remember last night?”  
“No,” I mumble through the bread.  
“That’s probably for the best,” Maria speaks up. Clint elbows her, hard.  
“Oh, God. What did I do?”  
“Nothing, Tash. Don’t worry about it. You completed the mission; everything went according to plan.”  
“I’m going to change out of this dress. When do we leave?”  
“Whenever you’re ready,” Clint replies.  
Maria sleeps on the quinjet, and I sit curled up in the copilot’s seat beside Clint. He has his eyes trained on the sky, but something else clearly on his mind.  
“Nat, you know I love you, right? All of you. You don’t have to ever worry about not being enough, okay? You’re always enough to me, to Laura. Cooper.”  
“What did I say to you last night?”  
“Nothing, it’s nothing. I just want to make sure you know. You being you, that’s enough. I don’t want you to feel pressure to be someone you’re not.”  
“I thought we agreed to save the sappiness for our beer and burgers.”  
“Right,” he gives me a tired smile.   
We arrive back at base and brief Coulson. However, my portion of the briefing is lacking due to the missing hours.  
“Romanoff, you’re dismissed. You did good work. Get some rest. You have the rest of the week off.”  
“Yes sir,” I nod and head out of his office. Clint races after me. “I didn’t forget our date. I’ll head home to shower and meet you there?”  
“Sounds good. You have a place in mind?”  
“Yelena and I went to this place once about an hour from here. I think you’d like it. See you there around one?” I ask.  
“Can’t wait.” I bump his shoulder and head towards the elevator.  
Back at my apartment, I shower and rinse off the mission. Despite not knowing what I did, I’m embarrassed. Both Clint and Maria looks at me with some sad pity this morning that I did not appreciate. I plait my hair in a tight French braid, happy to have it out of my face, and climb into my car.  
My lovely Porsche, my first real choice in this world. My first want. So old that it still has a cassette player, the CD player was broken when I purchased it five years ago. I pop in my favorite cassette, I had discovered it at a garage sale. The first half of the Beatles’ debut album. I found it funny that the first song was titled _Back in the U.S.S.R._ , and it inspired me to buy it. Their entire discography now sits in my glove compartment. I am nearly a half hour into the drive to the restaurant when my favorite song comes on, _Blackbird_.  
When I first heard the song, in a rare moment of introspection, I saw myself. The lyrics spoke to me in a surprising way. That there are others out there, struggling to be free. Struggling to know who they are after being broken for so long.   
_“Blackbird singing in the dead of night”_  
I take the curve of the road with ease.  
_“Take these sunken eyes and learn to see”_  
On either side of the small highway are open fields, so uncharacteristic, being so close to the city. I pull onto the overpass.   
_“All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free”  
_ Finally free. I think of what Clint said. That being me is enough. That I don’t have to strive to be anybody else.   
_“Take these broken wings and learn to fly.”_  
I’m enough. A calm settles over my chest. I am going to meet my best friend for drinks after work. We will talk about spring vacation plans, how he wants to celebrate Defection Day this year. We will share funny stories. Beer will come out of Clint’s nose and he will whine about the pain. And when I laugh, he will throw a French fry at me. Maybe I will even go back to the bookstore. I am more than what they made me.  
My head whips forward, smacking into the windshield as I am hit from behind. My car spins out and I struggle to get a hold on the wheel as blood drips into my eyes. It slides to a stop and take deep breaths, trying to orient myself. Before I have the chance, a large SUV is speeding towards me.  
It smashes into the passenger side of the car and my Spyder begins to skid, flying over the guardrail of the overpass and one the road below. I manage to press the distress signal disguised as a radio button as the car soars through the air. It tumbles, rolling across the empty road, rocking to a halt.  
I wake up to find the car turned on its side. My face is pressed against the concrete, the glass of the windows long gone. The music still plays.  
_“You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”_  
I try to move my head but am met with resistance. My hair is caught. The thick braid isn’t letting me move. I try to reach to reach to undo it, but my right arm hangs limply, dislocated, while the left is pinned by the crushed door. It is inexplicably hot.   
_“You were only waiting for this moment to arise”_  
The smell of gasoline floods my senses. No. The heat. The gasoline. I try to pull harder. I try to kick, but find my legs pinned as well. The heat is increasing, the fire spreading. I look and see it coming closer, the flames licking at me. Not yet. Not yet. Clint. Laura. Cooper. Lila. Fury. Coulson. Maria. I think I am screaming. I have never felt so much pain. There are sirens in the distance. Clint. Laura. Cooper. Lila. I won’t make it. Not yet. Not now. Not after everything. Not when there are people who want me, maybe even need me. Not yet. I'm not ready. Not yet. I watch as the flames begin to engulf me.  
_“You were only waiting for the moment to arise.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be out by Friday! I hope to have Kindred by Wednesday at the latest, but we'll see how that goes lol  
> Hope you enjoyed!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for suicide ideation**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay, I wrote eight (YES EIGHT) different version of this chapter. Not matter what I wrote, I was not satisfied, so I decide it was time to just bite the bullet and put this out there.  
> I hope you all enjoy! Thank you so much for reading!

I ran away once; I was nine years old. It was right after my first kill. Other girls boasted and seemed proud of their first. For me, I felt nothing but a growing pit of dread, shame, and guilt.  
I made it as far as the gates, or rather they let me get that far. They let me think I as going to be free, they let that hope enter my soul. I let myself wonder what freedom would be like. As I neared the wrought iron entrance, I thought of the village nearby I drove through once with Ivan and an older girl. There was a bakery, and I could smell the fresh baked bread from the car. I had decided that would be my first stop. I would buy sweet bread, or perhaps a cake. Well, steal, as I had no money. Perhaps I could work for it. Then I got a cattle prod in the back.  
As punishment, Madame B tried to destroy ballet for me. I had loved it without hesitation, once. The gracefulness, the movements. It was freeing for me; I think she knew this.  
Ivan dragged me back up the hill by my braid, not caring as I became scraped and dirty, before throwing me on the ground at Madame’s feet in the ballet studio. The class below me, Yelena’s class, is sitting in rows, their pinafores pressed. Yelena meets my eyes seriously, and I can see fear behind her cold exterior.  
Madame has me strip right there, in front of the girls, Ivan, and the male guards, tossing me a leotard. She goes over to my cubby where my pointe slippers are. We had just got them yesterday, and taught how to break them in. One girl, Karina, spent a lot of time reading. She said that we should have waited until we were eleven, that nine is too young. I told her that is for people, we were extraordinary. But that was before I made my first kill. Before I knew what being extraordinary meant. It had taken me an hour to get the shoes broken in just right, and I feared that Madame B would perhaps burn them, or in some way destroy them. Instead, she keeps them in her hand and walks over to the mirrors, her decorative cane clicking across the ground. With a swift movement, she shatters one. She bends down and carefully begins to pick up shards of glass, gathering them into the slippers. My mouth goes dry.  
When she has deemed there to be a satisfactory amount of glass, my shoes are brought over to me. I had not been given tights.  
“Put them on.” She commanded. I sat down on the ground and do it without question. My small feet slid into the slipper and I laced them up. My hands still shook from the electrocution I experienced not even ten minutes ago. I rose from the ground, the glass crunched into my feet. She had me perform Odile’s infamous scene in _Swan Lake_ , in which she does 32 fouettés en tournant. The hardest sequences in all of ballet. This went on for two hours, and I did not waver. I did not flinch. Even when she has me switch legs. Not a single mistake was made.  
Little girls sat in silence, watching me. Finally, Madame B told me to stop. I placed my hands behind my back and kept my head held high. She raised her cane off the ground and struck it across my cheek. I felt the bone break as my head whipped to the side. Blood filled my mouth and I raised my head once more. I told myself that they will not break me. They will not make me into a killer. I will not be their weapon. Madame stepped back and surveyed me, her eyes glinting.  
“Natalia, you are made of marble.”

I think of the glass in my slippers. I do not know what was supposed to happen that day, what the lesson was supposed to be. Perhaps, I was supposed to mess up, and they would kill me in front of the younger class, use me as an example. But I had not made a mistake, and I became Madame B’s favorite. She chipped away at me, bit by bit, until a sculpture that existed only in her imagine remained. I did not break, but I no longer resembled what I was before.  
This is what I think, as I see my face for the first time. I no longer resemble what I was before. The right half of my body was ravaged by flames, and my face was no exception. I raise my left hand to the scar; it can almost cover it. My right hand sits uselessly in my lap, the nerves burnt and destroyed.  
This is the first time they have let me see myself, which is understandable. For the past week and a half, the room has been filled with my screams of agony as the physical therapist tries to help me, as the nurses try to change my bandages.  
I had woken up early from my medically induced coma. It had been a disaster as I writhed, trying to escape the nurses who were changing my bandages. My skin split open once more, and every touch hurt. I believed they were harming me, that I was back in the Red Room. Clint said he heard me screaming for Yelena, though I have no recollection of this. I had broken one nurse’s nose in the struggle. Until ten days ago, when I woke up from my two-week coma, I didn’t know I could scream. It was an ugly, high pitched, keening sound. I have been tortured more than most people on Earth. I have gone through some of the worst things imaginable, and yet, I have never been in more pain than I am in now.  
I feel a hand curl around mine, unhooking my fingers. The handle of the mirror had cracked in my grip.  
“Nat,” I meet his eyes.  
“You should have let me die.”   
“Tash,”  
“At least if I were dead, I wouldn’t be in this hell.”  
“Do you want to watch a movie? I brought some of your favorite books, I stopped by your apartment,”  
“Please,” I ask one more time. I think of his cool, calloused hand touching my cheek when I first woke. The tears in his eyes as he smiled at me. I asked him to kill me, instead he kissed my forehead. Now, he looks at me, with his blue eyes bloodshot. He doesn’t cry in front of me anymore, but whenever he leaves the room, he returns with a blotchy face and bloodshot eyes.  
He ignores my plea, and instead begins to read off the book titles. Instead, I lay back my head once more, the scar tissue on my neck stretches tightly against the subtle movement, and I try to go back to sleep.

* * *

“Natasha, hey, you with me?” A hand touches mine and I jerk away, hitting my head on metal. My breaths come in rapid gasps and I can’t focus my gaze. Pain. I’m in pain. “Nat, deep breaths. You’re okay. We’re in the quinjet, at the farmhouse. Four, seven, eight, remember?” Agent Barton. _No_. Clint. It was Clint who touched my hand. Why are we in the quinjet? “Nat, breathe, come on. Just like we practiced.” I close my eyes and lean back in the seat, following the breathing pattern. When I reopen my eyes once more, Clint is inspecting me. I stare back and can feel tears in my eyes. “I need verbal confirmation, Tash.” His voice is soft and caring, as it has been since I woke up two weeks ago.  
“Where are we?”  
“On the farm, just got here.”  
“Not in D.C.?” I frown and feel the new scar tissue on my cheek protest the movement. “We were at the triskelion,”  
“You checked out for a little bit, that’s okay.” He brings over the wheelchair, “You ready to head in?” I want pain medication and sleep. “Nat,” Clint is now crouched down next to me. “I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”  
“I can walk,” I insist.  
“Tash,” We both know there is no way I can make it from the quinjet to the house. I can barely make it from my bed to the bathroom.  
Clint helps me up carefully, transferring me from one chair to another. Its been a month. Two weeks in a coma, two weeks awake. They finally deemed me well enough to leave the hospital, recommending I go to an assisted living facility for a few weeks. Clint didn’t even give me the opportunity to be horrified by the idea of strangers constantly touching and helping and being there. My protests about bringing me to the farm, with a toddler and a newborn to look after, were silenced.  
We exit the quinjet and make our way through the path leading up to the house. The front door opens, and I spy Laura stepping out onto the porch with Lila in her arms. We get close and Laura’s smile falters for only a moment when she sees me. Cooper throws himself off the porch, running towards us and then his eyes widen. He scurries back, hiding behind Laura’s long skirt.  
“Cooper, it’s Auntie Nat. You said this morning how excited you were,” He shakes his head, ducking behind Laura even further. “Cooper,” Clint’s voice takes on a warning tone.  
“Clint,” I beg, “Please,” I feel tears building up in my eyes. I am tired and in pain. Cooper is scared of me. Not that I blame him, outsides matching the in.  
“You two must be hungry, I made lunch,” Laura offers, opening up the door. We reach the stairs and Clint helps me up from the wheelchair once more, I grit my teeth in pain as we make our way up the two steps. He props me up by back, and I lean heavily against him as we shuffle inside.  
“I’ll put up a wheelchair ramp after lunch,”  
“Don’t you dare,” I warn him. “I am going to be out of that thing in the next two days and I never want to see it again.”  
We reach the couch and I am out of breath from the few steps. My newly regenerated muscles scream as though I have run a marathon. Clint heads into the kitchen to get me a glass of water, and I close my eyes, tilting my head back. I try to ignore the throbbing all across my body. A heavy weight lands on my legs and a scream escapes my lips. The weight quickly disappears but the agony does not. My back arches and I writhe, trying to lessen the pain. I open my eyes and see a wide eyed Cooper, wailing, while Clint is trying to get me to take meds.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I cry, twisting. “I didn’t mean to,” I gasp for air.  
“You didn’t hurt him, Nat,” Clint holds a pill to my lips and a glass of water. I sip readily.  
“I’m sorry,” My teeth chatter and I begin to see blood marring my grey sweatpants.  
“Shit,” He notices it as well. Laura has since come in and her eyes home in on the blood.  
“Clint, take Cooper into the kitchen okay?” She sets Lila down on a play mat and comes over to me. She gently shifts me so that I am lying back and pulls down my pants. My fresh skin, bumpy and crude, has split. A first aid kits seems to appear out of thin air, and she sets to work. A soft tissue wipes under my eyes. I hadn’t realized I was crying.  
“I shouldn’t be alive,”  
“It’s a miracle,”  
“It’s a curse,” I close my eyes, unable to look at her as the question forms on my lips, “If I asked you to kill me, would you do it?”  
“I’m sorry, Nat.” I feel the drugs begin to take effect, the pain beginning to ebb. But it is yet to go away completely, no matter the amount I am given, it is there, present like a shadow looming over me.

“Nat, you ready for PT?” Clint jogs into the kitchen. I am finishing up lunch, which Laura has forced me to eat. Lila is giggling at me from her seat. Cooper has begun to warm up, but is cautious, like he fears he may hurt me again. Last night, Laura cut my hair from the hack job that the firemen did to free me from the car. My once long hair, a source of pride for me, now ends at the nape of my neck. I am never growing it long again. Never having that possibility again. Can’t get trapped. Not again. I can feel Cooper watching me.  
I have been here a week. A week of being a burden to the Barton’s. I stand up slowly from the table and forget about my bum hand. It is only when I hear the crash that I see the spilt milk.  
“It’s okay, Nat. No biggie, I’ve got it,” Laura jumps forward, “You don’t want to be late for your first day of outpatient PT,” Laura gives me an encouraging smile. I feel like breaking. Like hiding in the sunroom, my makeshift bedroom, until I am healed. That is what they should have done. Stuck me in a long-term care facility until I am useful again. If I am useful again.  
“Tash,” I blink and see Clint, “You okay?”  
“Yeah,” He supports me as we walk out the front door. Now early April, the air smell sweet like honeysuckle.  
We don’t make our way towards the quinjet.  
“Where are we going?”  
“To PT, remember?”  
“No, but why aren’t we going to the jet?”  
“Your therapist is in town. We aren’t going to go to D.C. three times a week,” He presses his key fob and the truck beeps, unlocking.  
“No.” I stop in my tracks.  
“This physical therapist will be just as good as Brad, Thad, or whatever his name was.”  
I shake my head.  
“I can come in, it isn’t a big deal,” He tries to drag me forward, towards the car. The blood is rushing in my ears. I can’t. I can’t. Hot, so hot. Upside down. Rolling. Tar. Pinned.  
“No, no, no, no!” My voice rises an octave with each _no_. I duck away from Clint, and the movement causes me to lose my balance. My body screams as I hit the dirt, and I kick back quickly until my back is pressed up against the barn.  
“Nat, please, we have to go physical therapy, doctor’s orders,” He gets closer and I have no where to go. Can’t get in. No. No. No. Car ramming into the side. Rolling. Fire. Hot. Pinned, stuck. Pain. So much pain. No. “Okay, okay. You’re okay,” He grabs my hand and I look down, see strands of red hair and blood. “We won’t go, we’ll go back inside.”  
I am vaguely aware of Clint pulling me off the ground and entering the house. I stumble into the chair by the window, the chair that I have claimed as mine, and try to focus my thoughts. No car. We aren’t going. Aren’t getting in. Stupid, Natasha. Stupid. Get in the car. You can get in the car. No I can’t. I can’t. Hurt, pain. So much pain. No death, on suffering. So much suffering, without a moment of relief. Like Prometheus. Constant suffering. Because of fire. We both disobeyed our owners, our gods, to try and help people. Constant suffering without a moment of relief. Death does not greet us, does not rescue us.  
Death has confirmed that we are not partners. We are not comrades. I did not serve alongside him. That equal footing was a fallacy. There will be no mercy at his hands. Death was not a servant of the academy as I was. He is Madame B. He is Ivan. He is the Winter Soldier. He is the guards. He _is_ the Red Room. Death did not run into battle with me, he threw me forward as his servant, as his champion. He made me, and I will comply. I will only go on his terms, the punishment for thinking so foolishly. For thinking that I may walk through this world with some concept of the finality of life itself. I will not die until he is so inclined to let me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the depressing ending, I usually try to end chapters on happier notes with a bit of hope but this one wasn't feeling it. It will get lighter though, and there is some fun to come! 
> 
> As someone with nerve damage in my dominant hand, a lot of Nat's experiences with it will come from my own. And if you are looking for a mildly inconvenient disorder for your characters in a fanfic, it is called Neurogenic TOS in which your arm, hand, or fingers randomly lose all feeling, have nerve pain, or become 'fuzzy'. 
> 
> On a second note, I have never had severe burns and tried to be realistic with Natasha's enhanced healing abilities, but am sorry for any misrepresentation!  
> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and are staying safe and healthy!! Thank you for reading, and as always, comments are always welcome and appreciated!!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts and actions**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Hope you have had a good week! This chapter is dark, definitely not as dark as some of the other chapter of Volition, but still, proceed with caution! Tensions and emotions are running high for our characters. I re-wrote so many times, I don't know what is going on with me lately, being a bit more critical of my self than usual 🤷♀️  
> Chapter 25!! Please enjoy!

Nightmares. I have had them for years now, flashes of forgotten memories, remembered horrors, and worst fears. But they have never been like this. These are night terrors. I wake up screaming, ripping open wounds in my struggle, and waking the rest of the house. Sleeping through the night is a fantasy now.  
My days follow a torturous routine. Laura coming in to help me get dressed. Clint serves breakfast and medicine. Physical therapy over Skype at nine. Nap. Lunch. Sit in my chair. Sometimes with a book, normally not. Dinner. Back to the chair. Bathe. Sleep. Again.  
Of course, these are the good days, as Clint has begun to call them. He will ask at breakfast if this is a good day or a bad day. Either way, I want to stab him for the question. We never know it is a bad day until it is too late. Clint brought home a CD for me, the Beatles _White Album_. As soon as the song came on, things began to fall apart. Crying, thrashing, time disappearing. My favorite song has become a time machine, bringing me back to the worst moment of my life.  
One evening, Cooper came down to the living room. I had been at the farm for just over a week at this point. He is in Iron Man footie pajamas.  
“Auntie Nat,” he sounds hesitant. I look over from my chair, taking my eyes off the quinjet.  
“Hi, Little Man,” He smiles shyly, and then holds out his polar bear. The red ribbon on its neck has begun to fray, and an eye is missing.  
“Why are you giving me B?”  
“He stops the nightmares,” Cooper explains seriously. I look at the bear the Yelena gave him once more.  
“I’m sorry Coop, but I don’t think it will work.”   
“Why? B is magic,”  
“He is only for you, so he can’t stop my bad dreams,” I explain. Taking the bear and then having it fail would break Cooper’s heart, and faith. “Auntie Lena made sure that B was all magicked up just for you,” I feel my eyes begin to water.  
“I’m sorry, Auntie Nat.” He comes up on my good side, pressing up against me as he has seen Clint do. “Are you going to be happy again?” My throat tightens. “Mommy and Daddy said that when you get quiet, its not because you love me any less. Sometimes, you are just extra sad. Right?”  
“I could never love you any less.” I promise. Though he looks at me with sadness, I am grateful there is no longer fear. Him believing I am a monster, finding out what I have done, that is the only thing that may hurt more than the burns.

I cough heavily and sit down on a bale of hay in the barn, the twenty feet from the house to the barn leaving me winded. After a moment, I regain my composure and go over to the gun cabinet. I unlock the weapons, grabbing a glock, and face the target. It has been years since I have had to unload and reload a gun with one hand. It was standard training in the Red Room for possible injury. But the movements comes back to me easily, like riding a bike. I fire a round and it hits the bullseye. For a moment, I bask in the satisfaction and get ready to fire again when the barn door bursts open. Clint skids in, dripping with sweat from working the fields.  
“Natasha, what the fuck?” His eyes land on the weapon and he rips it from my hand. I allow him, too puzzled by his reaction.  
“I wanted to practice,” Guns offer control, and right now, I have none.  
“You could have,”  
“Shot myself? Jesus, Cint. It’s pretty hard to shoot yourself by mistake.”  
“Or not by accident, I don’t know. Just please, let me know next time.”  
“I’m not your child, Clint. I do not need your permission to use a gun.” My voice takes on a dangerous edge.  
“I just can’t lose you. It was too close this time, it gets closer every time.”  
“This is the first thing I have been able to do since I woke up that doesn’t make me hate my existence and question whether or not my life it worth living. This is proof that I still have value. You do not get to take that away from me,” I pause to catch my breath, my still-healing burnt lungs and broken ribs hinder the conviction in my voice.  
“Your value doesn’t come from how lethal you are,”  
“You and I clearly had a very different upbringing,” I snark, my voice dripping with vitriol.  
“You aren’t supposed to use weapons on your meds, you know that.”  
“I know,” I lean against the wall.  
“Natasha, you have to take them.” He shakes his head, heading over to the gun cupboard.  
“I’m taking the antibiotics. I’m not stupid.”  
“No, just a masochist,” he snaps.  
“I have to be able to protect myself, and I can’t do that on those drugs,”  
“You can’t do that at all right now!” He slams the weapons cabinet shut, locking it with the keypad. More quietly, he adds, “It is okay to need help, Nat.”  
“You don’t understand what its like. There is no one left who understands,”   
“I can’t begin to imagine what this is like,” he agrees, “But you aren’t alone. You have a whole team in your corner.”  
“You all expect me to be Natasha,”  
“That’s who you are,”  
“No, it’s not. Right now, I’m not her. But I’m not Natalia either. Natasha feels more than I am, but Natalia feels less. I don’t know, I’m not making sense. You can’t understand,”  
“I will try, please.”  
“I heard you talking to Laura last night.” I admit, Three weeks on the Barton farm. Three weeks of being a burden, and it was starting to take its toll on the family.  
“Natasha,” I see the exhaustion that lines Clint’s face as he runs back and forth between my room and Lila’s at all hours of the night, waking each other up with cries and screams.  
“Thank God she is such an easy baby, I don’t know how we could do all this. Cooper, Lila, and Nat. I’m barely keeping it together as it is,” I quote him.  
“You are taking that out of context,”  
“Out of what context? Because I’m not worth the work. I know I’m not.” I have tried to help out as best I can, though I feel as though I am just getting in the way. “Clint, you remember that story you told me about the horse in the circus?”  
“Yes,” His jaw twitches, not liking where this is going.  
“It broke its leg practicing a stunt. And it was decided that it was less cruel, kinder, to put a bullet in its head than let it suffer. The first living thing you ever killed. This is the same situation, Agent Barton.”  
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, “You know I hate it when you call me that,” I backpedal, trying to think what I did wrong.  
“I, um, I,”  
“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?”  
“I’m sorry, I,” I dig my good hand into my scalp. “I’m sorry.”  
“It’s okay, I thought you were trying to get a rise out me, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”  
“If I don’t heal properly, if this is as good as I ever get,” Clint is pulling my hand away from my head, “I won’t know where I belong in the world. I don’t know my place. Because I have no place in the world, that is what she used to tell me. And she was right. Look at me. Without killing, what am I?”  
“You’re Auntie Nat, you’re my best friend, you are smart and kind, loyal.”  
“I’m going back to D.C.”  
“Did Fury call you? Is that why you were in here practicing?”  
“No, but I called him last night. He has work for me if I want to come back.”  
“But you would be alone in your apartment,” he frets, “You could fall. Or if you need help,”  
“Maria lives fifteen minutes away. And I don’t know if you have noticed, but I have figured out how to put on my clothes one handed,” I joke lightly, but in reality, I burn with shame. I couldn’t even dress myself until a few days ago.  
“I could come with you,”  
“Clint, I don’t have the energy to debate with you. I have to fly the quinjet out,”  
“You mean leave right now? Why? Stay a few more days, we can talk this over, come up with a plan.”  
“I already packed my bag. Its sitting on my bed.”  
“Natasha, you can’t just leave. You are sick and injured.” I didn’t even notice that he was holding me up.  
“I can’t stay here. I can’t help out, I just take up space.” He lowers me onto the porch swing. The same one I sat in the first time I came here. Clint heads inside and comes out a moment later with a glass of water and some pills. He sits down on the swing, presenting them to me. I take them reluctantly, though tears almost rise to my eyes at the thought of my agony ending, at least for a few hours. That a simple breeze will not make me want to scream.  
I sit quietly during dinner, smiling as Cooper tells little kid jokes and gently hugs my good side. By seven o’clock, I am falling asleep.  
At two in the morning, I wake with the drugs gone, my senses sharp and painful. It is worst now, after having a break. I take my bag and scribble out a note on the grocery list in the kitchen. Without looking back, I board the quinjet.

* * *

D.C. is in the middle of a record heat wave when I arrive. For the first time, I take the tram from SHIELD to the subway station, and then take a train to my apartment. The fifteen-minute commute is now double. Not that I have a car anymore. My lovely Spyder, my first purchase, my first taste of freedom, is gone. Even if I did own a car, I could not bring myself to get within two feet of it.  
There are lingering stares on the subway. The woman covered in burns. Normally, I am inconspicuous, I can melt into a crowd. That was my purpose, but now, it is nearly impossible.  
My apartment is hot and sticky. Someone had come to clean out my fridge while I was gone, likely Maria. Another round of houseplants has died, and I hope no one gifts me more.  
I sit down on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, and realize with a note of panic, that there isn’t a smoke alarm. A quick survey of my apartment reveals only three: one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, and one in the guest room.  
An hour later I return with four more. I have to make multiple trips to each room, unable to carry both the step-stool and smoke detectors at the same time. The already installed smoke alarms are given fresh batteries, and I put a fire extinguisher in my bedroom, along with one in the kitchen. My body aches from all the activity, and I head back into my bathroom to soak, hopefully relieving my strained muscles. There are candles under the sink. And incense. I drop them into the trash, along with any lighters and matches I can find. The trash bag goes out to the curb. I end up back in my bedroom, abandoning the quest for a soak. My sheets are stale and musty, in desperate need of a wash, but I ignore it, instead burying further into the blankets. For the first time in nearly to months, I am alone. Worse yet, I am lonely.  
I arrive at SHIELD before five on the next morning. I slip into my office unnoticed by the nightshift guards. Everything is undisturbed, exactly as I had left it. Save for a flash drive on my desk with a sticky note.  
_Yours to read when ready. -Fury_  
It must be a report on my accident. Accident is one way to phrase it. Was it a car accident? Was it a fire? Assassination attempt is the most accurate term I can produce. I unlock the top drawer to my desk and drop the flash drive in it, unable to look at it right now. My email is overloaded, and it is nearly seven when I finish sorting through them all. It is also at that time that there is a knock at my door.  
“What?” I bark, irritated. The door opens and Fury steps in. I jump up quickly from my seat, wincing in pain as my skin stretches, my vision blurs before righting itself. “Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t think,”  
“Romanoff, you can sit down, it’s okay.” I nod weakly, he gestures to the chair across from my desk, “May I?”  
“Of course,” I rather ungracefully fall back into my seat. Nothing about me used to be ungraceful.  
“It is good to have you back. Though I want you to know that if you need more time, I am happy to give it to you.”  
“I am fine sir. I am ready to get back to work.”  
“You are not cleared for missions,”  
“But I could be a handler,” I counter.  
“You aren’t cleared for the field, period.”  
“I could train new recruits,”  
“Natasha,” Fury says gently. It is out of character, him being soft. It causes a fresh wave of anxiety to begin to surge. “We almost lost you. That was too close a call.”  
“Agents die all the time.”  
“You weren’t on a mission. We are conducting an investigation, but you need to know, there was a hefty bounty placed on your head. So far, we are unable to find out who placed the hit. And you are not just another agent. I have come to like you, Agent Romanoff, and I don’t like many people. Not only that, but I also respect you.”  
“Thank you, sir.” Despite everything else going on, my heart swells with the praise.  
“I understand the need to be back at work, but I can only give you translations. Hopefully, something will come across my desk that will fit your current capabilities. But for now,”  
“I’m on desk duty?” I offer.  
“Or I can have Hill fly you back to Barton. I got six calls from him yesterday, on a Sunday.”  
“I am happy to do what I can, sir.” He stands up from his seat and I rush to do the same.  
“This is your office, Romanoff. You can stay seated. I’ll show myself out.”  
The month May goes by tortuously slow. I develop a schedule against my will. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings are spent in PT, followed by translating. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I exercise before work. My morning run that I had with Clint is now a jolting walk with a rest every few yards. I am yet to be able to go further than a half mile before my lungs begin to feel as though they may burst, and my legs want to give out. Half a mile.  
I plunge myself under the water of my bathtub-  
Clint has visited twice. He forced me to go grocery shopping and clean my sheets. To go with him to the movies. He tried to get me to head back to the farm.  
My body screams for air.  
Translations have begun to accumulate as I lose my drive. I feel as though I am waiting for death, like it is only a matter of time. There is no point. I am fairly certain Fury only sends translations my way to ensure me that I have not been forgotten.  
-I burst up from the water, coughing. My forehead rests on the edge of the tub, and I want nothing more than to be able to stay under water. To wait it out. I even tried laying down in the middle of the street a few nights ago. No cars came.  
I dry off and change into fresh sweatpants and a t-shirt. My jeans and leather jackets wait for me, but they rip my fragile skin. No one stares at me on the train anymore. They have become used to seeing this monster in their lives. I can’t. I have covered up all the mirrors in my apartment. The only place I cannot escape my reflection is in physical therapy, in a room surrounded by mirrors. It reminds me of the ballet studio. I wonder if I can ever dance again. I haven’t in so long, not since I defected. Yelena’s slippers sit in my closet, still wrapped in tissue paper.  
My physical therapist from before, an eager but surprisingly no-nonsense intern named Chad, has gone back to New York for the summer. This leaves me with perky Francine, who has the poster of the kitten with the words _Hang in there_ behind her desk. She also snaps her gum, which in my enhanced ear, is like firecrackers. That type of thing did not use to bother me, but my patience is thin these days.  
“Okay, Agent Romanoff, did you do the exercises I gave you on Friday?”  
“Yes Fran.” I took the table by the window of the PT room. The view of the Potomac is amazing, and it is the only place where I don’t have to look at my own face.  
“Let’s see it!” She says perkily. I think of the knife I have on my lower back. Instead, I look down at my hand and manage to lift my middle and index fingers about a centimetre off the table. “Amazing! You are doing so well!” My mind wanders back to the knife. “And I saw you walk in here; you are doing an awesome job bending those knees more! Soon, you’ll be back to running,”  
After my two-hour PT session, I am freed, darting to my own self-imposed prison. Coulson is waiting for me. He is sitting in the spare chair, reading through one of my books.  
“Sir,”  
“Agent Romanoff, good to see you,” He says sincerely. I limp over to my desk, taking my seat. “How is physical therapy going?”  
“I haven’t killed Fran.” I retort. Phil laughs.  
“That’s good to hear. I know Maria has considered killing her a handful of times. Have you seen her recently?”  
“We have dinner twice a week.” In which she brings food to my apartment, which forces me to keep the place presentable and clean. I think that is part of her plan. The manipulation is admirable.  
“Did you know I have a girlfriend, Natasha?” Switching from agent to my name. This is a personal conversation.  
“Yes, a cellist.” He seems taken back.  
“How?”  
“What kind of spy would I be if I didn’t know?” I can’t bring my face or tone to match my intention. I feel flat.  
“It is important to have a life outside of all this. You should go out and visit the Barton’s, take a long weekend.”  
“Phil,”  
“I know. Just think about it, okay?” He rises from his seat, “I have a long-term undercover mission. Just popped in to say goodbye,”  
“When are you coming back?” I’m alarmed by my own sentimentality.  
“Six to nine months. It’s deep cover,”  
“You will be missed around here, sir.”  
“I’ll miss you too, Natasha.” He replies, knowing the true meaning of my sentiment. As my office door click shut, I cannot help but feel that another person has left me.  
  
It is nearly two weeks after Phil had left, as I eat dinner with Maria, that she hands over some bombshell news.  
“They are thawing out Steve Rogers tomorrow.”  
“Is it safe?” A feeling of discontent settles in my stomach. It seems rushed.  
“Hopefully. We don’t exactly have a spare Captain America lying around.” She stabs at her kung pao chicken with a single chopstick, skewering it.  
“Am I supposed to know this?”  
“Probably not. But a report will be circling around SHIELD in a few days about anyway.” She looks around my apartment.  
“What?”  
“Thinking about getting you another house plant,”  
“Please don’t. I should be tried for plant genocide at this point.”  
“Maybe a pet?”  
“If I can’t take care of a plant, what makes you think I can take care of an animal?” I stand up from the table, wincing.  
“Nat,”  
“Don’t ask me, Maria. You know what the answer will be.”  
“At least take them at night,”  
“They make me sleep.” I grumble as I head into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of wine.  
“That is kind of the point.”  
“What if something happens and I sleep through it?” I feel the now familiar surge of panic, “Did you know you don’t have a sense of smell when you sleep? And that smoke alarms weren’t invented until 1970? According to FEMA, in 2010, there were 3,445 deaths from housefires, up fifty-four from last year. Washington D.C. has the ninth highest death toll despite being the second smallest population. Asphyxiation is actually the leading cause of death in fires, not burns, in a three to one ratio.”  
“Natasha,”  
“When people burn alive, they usually die from smoke inhalation before burning to death. No witches were actually burned at the Salem Witch trials, they were hung.” I clutch the wine bottle close to my chest, trying to slow my thoughts and gasps for air.  
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. If you don’t want to take the pain meds, don’t. I just worry about you.” I give a stiff nod of my head, retaking my seat. Maria opens the bottle of wine, pouring two glasses.  
“You should be more worried about Fran from PT than me,”  
“Ugh, you got saddled with her?” Maria rolls her eyes, equally as grateful as I am for the change of subject.

Maria slips me Roger’s debrief three days later. The female agent posing as a nurse messed up my plan. She played a baseball game from when he was alive, one he went to for God’s sake. They almost blew everything, with Steve running out into Times Square. The man must have been terrified. I feel a twinge of sympathy and close the physical file, making a mental note to return it to Maria. It isn’t very often there are physical files anymore. I move onto my inbox, prioritizing different translations. I am hunched over my laptop, and I can hear Melina, one of the older widows, criticizing my posture. This forces me to self-correct, and I ignore the tug of the scars.  
“Romanoff,” I look up from my computer at Fury, who stands in the doorway of my office. It had so rarely been used before this, but now, I have nowhere else to be. “I have an assignment for you.”  
“A new translation?” I ask, not able to keep the contempt from creeping into my voice.  
“No, a real assignment. Get off your ass.” I slam my computer shut and jump up, wincing as my skin tightens. Fury pretends not to notice. He walks down the hall, slower than normal, and it ticks me off. What frustrates me even more is that I am having trouble keeping up with him.  
“What is the mission, sir?” I ask after we walk in silence for a few minutes.  
“You have kept up on the information regarding Captain America?”  
“Yes.”  
“Then you know about our little incident in Times Square.”  
“Yes, and that you transferred him here late last night.” Though I don’t think I am supposed to know that part.  
“Good, you’re all caught up.”  
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”  
“You, Agent Romanoff, are going to help Rogers adjust to the twenty-first century.”  
“Sir?”  
“Be his friend, Agent. That is your assignment. Take him to your favorite coffee shop. Show him movies. I don’t know, whatever people your age do.”  
“I am not the best person for this job.”  
“You have something better to do?” I duck my head, “I didn’t mean it like that, Natasha.” He says softly. “The only person more qualified to do this is Barton and he’s on paternity leave with half a foot in retirement.”  
“Yes, sir.” I reply. I don’t want to pull Clint away from Lila and his family right now.  
“You have a two-bedroom apartment,” I don’t like where this is going, “He is going to come to stay with you.”  
“Sir!” I can’t help but object, ignoring that part of me that is itching to apologize.  
“You have months until you are back in the field, even longer until you are completely healed. That should give Rogers plenty of time to adjust to the 21st century.” I grind my teeth.  
We go through a set of double doors, into the conference room suite. He opens the door to room 1A. Upon hearing the door open, the man frozen in time just days ago, rises from his chair.  
“Agent Romanoff, meet Captain Rogers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they have met!! Yay! But also, poor Nat... The coming chapters will be a lot more lighthearted as these two help each other out. There are about nine months left of Volition, so we're looking at maybe 32 chapters total? Idk, nothing is pre-written, just a guess!  
> Next chapter will be out hopefully by the end of the weekend and I hope to have the next chapter of Kindred out tomorrow night. Thank you all for following along!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Hope you have had a good week! Mine has been a little rough and very busy, sorry for the delay, and the short chapter! This was actually a lot longer, but I split it in two because it felt busy, so the next chapter will probably be up before Kindred (which should be out Sunday)  
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you are doing well 💕

“Rogers, meet Agent Romanoff,” I am given an uncomfortable smile, and I can feel his gaze lingering on my right cheek.  
“Steve,” he offers after a beat, sticking out his hand. I try not to huff in either amusement or irritation as I stick mine out as well. He shakes it without so much as a wince. The hand is still unmoving due to nerve damage, so I imagine that, combined with the roughness of the scars, must make the experience similar to shaking a tree branch.  
“Agent Romanoff is going to help you adjust to the twenty-first century. I will leave you two to get acquainted. Hill is dropping your things off at her apartment.”  
“Sir? I’m sorry, I don’t understand,”  
“You two are going to be roommates,” Fury laughs, “God, I wish we had your apartment bugged,” I shoot Fury a glare, “Relax, Romanoff. We aren’t going to do that. Just don’t kill him, okay?” Rogers must think this is a joke, but I know Fury is at least somewhat serious. The conference room door clicks shut.  
I turn and look over at the super soldier, with a superior serum running through his veins. It is because of him that I exist, that I’m alive. He withers slightly under my stare.  
“So, Agent Romanoff, how long have you been with SHIELD?”  
“Five years. Come on, I have to grab some things from my office and then I can show you _our_ new place.”  
“I’m sorry, I had no clue that Director Fury was going to have me live with someone.”  
“No one ever knows what Fury is going to do.” I head towards the exit and Rogers rushes ahead of me to get it. “I can open doors,” I snap to him.  
“I didn’t mean, of course, ma’am,” His eyes flick down to my hand, and he closes the door. I stifle a groan of irritation for his bumbling incompetence and pull it open with my left. He walks slowly, not just due to my pace, but seemingly trying to take in everything around him. He makes a point of stepping aside while I unlock the door to my office.  
Inside, he stands awkwardly to the side, watching as I pack up my things. I can tell he is itching to help. Apparently, chivalry isn’t dead, it was frozen in ice for seventy years. He watches as I close my laptop, clearly fascinated by it.  
“It’s a computer,” I explain, “It has all the information in the world on it.”  
“All of it?” His eyes widen.  
“Pretty much. I can teach you how to use it, and type.”  
“I know how to type,” His eyes light up, thrilled to know something useful, “In high school, I couldn’t take carpentry on account of my asthma and the saw dust, so they stuck me in typing with the girls. I can type fifty words per minute,” I nod, unsure how he wants me to respond.  
“That will be helpful, we do more typing than writing nowadays.” I close the door to my office, and we head towards the elevator.  
“These things used to have music, and operators.” He looks out over the Potomac, the glass lift providing an excellent view. “Things are really different now. Phones, they go in your pocket?” I hold up mine. He shakes his head and falls silent for the remainder of the ride.

* * *

  
He doesn’t question why we are boarding the tram instead of taking a car, and we take the subway to my apartment.  
Our stop is the first and it is a short walk to my apartment, and he does not mention anything as we take the elevator to the second floor. But I can feel curiosity burning in him as I undo the six locks to get into my, our, apartment.  
“I’ll get you a set of keys tomorrow.”  
“Thank you, ma’am.”  
“Don’t call me ma’am.”  
Inside, I instantly notice that all pictures of the Barton’s have been removed. They photos are likely in my closet, hidden away by Maria. On the dining table, a file for Steve has been laid out, and next to it, a cell phone, and a set of keys.  
“Looks like I won’t be needing to make copies.” He opens up the file, and inside are a passport, social security card, driver’s license, and other documents needed to exist in the world. He holds up a blue plastic card.  
“What’s this?”  
“A credit card. People use it instead of money. You pay it off at the end of every month.”  
“Why not just use cash?”  
“If people are spending a thousand dollars, they don’t want to just keep it in their pocket.” I head over to the kitchen and open up the drawer of takeout menus. “Do you like pizza?”  
“I’ve never had it, ma’am.”  
“What did I just fucking say?” His eyes widen at my expletive, and in honesty, the pain in my legs is wearing my patience thin, I need to lie down. Fran was a drill sergeant this morning.  
“I’m sorry, you never gave me your name.” The tips of his ears are bright red.  
“Natasha.” I sigh. “I’ll order us pizza.”  
“Where should I put my bag?” He picks the duffel off the ground, “I mean,”  
“I’ll show you,” I go over to Yelena’s room, no, the guest room, and open the door. It is just as she left it, and no one has stayed in it since her, years ago on Christmas. Sometimes, foolishly, I look in, thinking she will be there, unannounced and having a story about her adventures and discoveries. I bite my lip as Steve sets his bag down.  
“Thank you,” I nod and hurry out of the room and into my own. After ordering the pizza, I lie down on my bed, massaging my legs.  
In what seems like no time at all, the buzzer for the front door is ringing out into the apartment. I groan, pulling myself off the bed. When I open the door, Rogers is waiting outside, poised to knock.  
“I heard it, it’s the pizza guy.”  
“You could hear that in your bedroom?” He watches as I reach into my purse and pull out a fifty, heading out of the apartment.   
The busser from the Italian place across the street is waiting with the two pizzas. They started delivering to me when I first arrived in May and saw how hard it was for me to even get to the restaurant. Despite my instance otherwise, they now send one of the bus boys to drop off my food.  
“Hi Ms. Romanoff,” I give him a smile and the fifty-dollar bill. His eye light up at the hefty tip, and after a quick thank you, he jogs back across the street.   
Back in the apartment, I find Steve has set the table. He didn’t grab the paper plates, as I usually do for pizza, but instead my Crate and Barrel dinnerware, along with cloth napkins.  
“Sorry, I think I went a little overboard.”  
“It’s okay,” It is actually really sweet. “I got you meat lovers, I hope you’re not a vegetarian. Do you know what a vegetarian is?”  
“Yes,” He takes the boxes from my arms, putting them on the table. “How much do I owe you for dinner?”  
“My treat,” I pull a slice from my cheese pizza, putting it on the plate. Rogers stares at his form a moment before  
“Are you sure?”  
“Do you have money?” I ask dryly.  
“I have the plastic card,” For the first time in months, I laugh. It is more a snort than anything, but nevertheless, it surprised me. A timid smile blooms across his face.  
“SHIELD set up a bank account for you, I’m sure there is a debit card in that folder too.” He looks as though he is going to ask me another question but stops as he takes a bite of pizza. His eyes widen.  
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,”  
“It’s good?”  
“I can’t believe they didn’t have this all over New York, all we had was boiled food. My friend, Bucky, he went to Little Italy once to pick up a girl and had pizza. All he talked about was the girl,” Rogers finishes the slice and stares longingly at the box.  
“I got you the whole box, I almost got two. I don’t know how much you need to eat.”  
“But,”  
“We’re in the recession, not the depression. Finish the pizza.”  
He polishes off remainder of his meal fairly quickly, and I wonder if anyone at SHIELD thought to ask how much food the super soldier needs. Just because my serum requires less food, doesn’t mean his does as well.  
“Thank you for dinner, Natasha. I really appreciate it.” He stands up and starts to gather the dishes, “And I know you can do dishes, but you paid for dinner. My ma would be whooping me right now if I had you pay and cleanup.” He heads into the kitchen and begins to wash the dishes by hand.  
“Tomorrow, I will teach you about the dishwasher, and the microwave.” I stand up from the table too quickly, gasping in pain. I lean over on the table, trying to calm the swimming vision.  
“Natasha? Do you have medicine or something? Is it in your bathroom? Bedroom?” I shake my head, waiting for it to subside. “What can I do?”  
“Stop talking,” I growl through clenched teeth. Finally, after a few moments, the room stops spinning. He is holding out a glass of water when I rise up from leaning on table. The pity in his eyes makes me shrivel up on the spot. “I’m fine,”  
“Okay,” He doesn’t believe me.  
“I’ll see you in the morning. We can go shopping and get you somethings.”  
“Natasha,” I limp out of the room, slamming my door shut.

The rest of the evening is spent with my favorite gun, the engraved one from Clint. I practice unloading and reloading the weapon until I am just as proficient with one hand as I was with two. After, I polish and clean it until it shines.  
Tolstoy is my only companion that is not a weapon at the moment, though in a pinch, his books are thick enough that I probably could kill someone with it.  
Anna had just stepped off the train at the station in Obiralovka when I hear a crash erupt from the guest room. At nearly two o’clock, I cannot imagine Rogers rearranging the room right now. I slink into the hallway with my gun drawn and see his door is slightly cracked open. My mind races with the possibility of who it could be, how many people want me dead. Or someone found out that he is _The_ Steve Rogers and wants him dead. I nudge open the door with my foot. In the soft light of the moon, I see him on the ground, head in his hands. The blankets are on the floor, torn and drenched in sweat. I slip out before he notices me.  
When I return a few minutes later with a mug of tea, he is staring at the compass I found on the plane. It is clicked open, as he looks at the woman inside.  
“I’m glad that you got it.” He jumps and looks up, surprised. Apparently, sneaking up on people is not a skill I have lost. “I found it on the plane, I was there when they took you out.” I pass him the mug of tea and ease onto the floor next to him. “My boss, well I gave it to him. I’m glad it didn’t end up in a museum or something. It seems important to you.” He doesn’t meet my eyes but slides the trinket back into the pocket of his sweatpants and holds the mug up to his lips.  
“My ma used to drink this sometimes.”  
“Chamomile, it helps.” We sit in silence as he drinks his tea, neither of us saying anything. I don’t comment that the great Captain America is a man with demons like the rest of us, and he doesn’t mention my admission to having them too.  
“There’s a butterfly on the bottom,” he looks up when he has finished the tea. “It’s sweet.”  
“It was a gift from some friends when they moved away.” I pull myself up off the ground with help from the bed, taking back the mug.  
“Thank you.”  
“I don’t really sleep either. So, its no problem. Anytime.” I finish clumsily, holding the mug tight. “Goodnight, Rogers,”  
“Goodnight, Romanoff,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Thank you!!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Last of the short-ish chapters! They will be back to their normal length of aprox. 3,000 words after this one! I hope you all enjoy and are having a wonderful weekend!! As always, comments are welcome and appreciated!

In the morning, I take cold shower and get dressed. I carefully try to pull on jeans, but it isn’t going to happen today. I am sick of sweatpants, of loose clothing. It is warm today, even for June. I could wear a dress. I look down at the scars on my legs. It isn’t as if I am hiding them on my face or arms. Despite this thought, the dress I put on skirts my ankles.  
I find Steve combing through my bookshelf in the living room. It is overflowing, and I imagine that eventually, I will probably need a room of my house dedicated to them all.  
“You like to read?”  
“Yes.” I head over to the kitchen and turn on the Keurig.  
“I like reading, but art was always my thing.” I nod and he comes into the kitchen. Him reading through the title in my bookshelf felt a little like he was reading into me, into my mind. I take a sip of my coffee, black, and notice he takes it that way as well, ignoring the milk I set out on the counter. “I’m sorry, for last night. And for invading your space.”  
“It isn’t your fault.” I sigh and finish off my coffee, putting the mug in the dishwasher, whose use I explain to Steve.  
“So, we’re going shopping?”  
“You don’t really own anything.” I try to imagine what was in that bag he was carrying, as they clothes, he wore yesterday look practically identical to the ones he is wearing today.  
“I’m guess all my old stuff is gone?”  
“Or memorialized, put in a museum, or being kept away by private collectors.”  
“Collectors?”  
“Yes. People are kind of obsessed with you, Rogers.” I put my crossbody on my shoulder. He looks longingly at the fridge. Right. Food. “I don’t really have anything in the fridge. My groceries are getting delivered later today. There is a bagel place next to the subway station. I can get us something.”   
In the little shop, and I order us both large black coffees as. When I come back outside holding the tray, along with two bagels, I spy him talking to a man on a motorcycle. He is more animated than I have seen since he arrived, gesturing to the various parts of the bike. I feel almost sorry to interrupt him, but he notices me.  
“Thank you, ma’am.”  
“Rogers, you have to stop calling me ma’am before I kill you,” I tell him sincerely, holding out the tray.  
“Okay, Romanoff.” I don’t miss the note of sarcasm.  
We sit side by side on the subway, and I try to be invisible, not entirely comfortable being outside my normal routine, surrounded by new people. The me before this would have been horrified. Finding comfort in a routine, feeling safe. Feeling safe gets you killed. A false sense of security. Like relaxing in the car, listening to music. Not watching your surroundings. Safety is a fallacy create by people who cannot deal with the true horror of life: that no matter how secure something may seem; a threat is always waiting around the corner. Creeping up. Engulfing. Smothering. Suffocating.  
“Natasha? Are you okay?” Rogers is staring at me. I blink realizing I had space for a minute. The people sitting around us have changed. There is a crackle over the old speakers as the conductor announces the next stop, thankfully ours.  
We step out of the train and wait on the escalators. The mall I am taking him to is a city mall, much different than the one Clint took me to in the heart of suburbia. Nevertheless, as we walk in the main entrance, his eyes widen as he gapes at all the stores and bright colors. Hundreds of people mill about, shopping. We are instantly invisible, and I feel some of my stress mitigate.  
“I know, it’s a lot. American consumerism,” I huff, a little out of breath.  
“There is so much,” A boy who grew up in the Great Depression and reached adulthood in World War II, a lot of something was hard to come by.  
“We can start by getting you some new clothes,” He looks down at his old man khakis and plaid cotton button down with a frown.  
“Can we sit down first? I want to take it all in.” Rogers leads us over to a bench and tries to discretely, try being operative word, watch the passerby. “You ready to go?” He asks after a few minutes, turning to me.  
“What?” I snap.  
“Are you ready to go shopping?”  
“Did you really have us sit here because of me?”  
“Not entirely, I wanted to people watch too. People look so different now,” I have to say, I am slightly impressed by his cunning tactics, but I am more embarrassed than anything.  
“If I need to rest, I will tell you.”  
“Okay.” Once again, he doesn’t seem to believe me, despite my being one of the best liars in the world. I could say I am Clint Barton and still pass the polygraph.  
I bring him into Nordstrom’s and sit down in one of the lounger chairs while Steve tries on shoes.  
“Romanoff,” he comes up to me, looking panicked, “The price,”  
“Don’t worry, just put it on the plastic card. SHIELD will reimburse you. Spend however much you want,”  
“But two hundred dollars for a pair of shoes, that’s more than four months rent in Brooklyn,”  
“An apartment in Brooklyn would set you back about two thousand a month now,” Steve looks like he is going to faint. “Inflation, Rogers, remember?” He nods and looks down at the leather shoes in his hand. “You should get a pair of sneakers too,”  
Though he proved able to fend for himself in shoes, clothing seems to be an entirely different matter. I move slowly through the racks, handing him different articles until an entire wardrobe rests in his arms. While he tries on the clothes, I make a quick purchase. Upon returning, I see Steve standing around, looking like a lost puppy. The panic disappears from his face when he sees me.  
“I thought you left,”  
“That would kind of be a dick move, Rogers.” His mouth opens and closes like a fish, his ears turning bright red. I try not to laugh. “Okay, old man, lets see how you did.” He holds up a single shirt, but a glare sends him back into the dressing room, returning with half the items.  
“Are you sure this is okay?” I nod and show him how to swipe his card.  
“How long has this been around?”  
“Since the 1950’s, but the card like that, since the ‘80’s.”  
“It used to be when someone was talking about the ‘80’s, it was the 1880’s,” He puts the card into his newly purchased wallet, rather than loose in his pocket as it had been.  
“Are you hungry? We can stop for lunch,” He nods, and we go to a sports bar overlooking the food court below. A Nationals game plays on every TV.  
The hostess stares at us both, an odd pairing for sure, before gathering her wits and showing us to a booth.  
“Here,” I hold out the small shopping bag I acquired in Nordstrom. He reaches in and pulls out the signature, black Ray-Bans case. “You were squinting the whole time we were outside. It was annoying.” I look back down at the menu, avoid his gaze.  
“Thank you, that was really thoughtful.”  
I order a chopped salad, a food I don’t have to cut, and sip my iced tea. Rogers looks at all the sports memorabilia, his eyes landing on a picture of Babe Ruth.  
“You know, I saw him pitch his final game? It was against the Red Sox in 1933. Use to try to go as often as I could. My pal and I, we’d look around the streets for bottles to trade for coins.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Have you ever been to a game?”  
“No. I have never had a lot of downtime. This is new for me.”   
“So, you’ve been with SHIELD for five years?”  
“I joined a few months before my twenty-second birthday.” Don’t ask me what I did before then. What my life was like. What my _pals_ and I did. “We actually share a birthday,” I add, trying to diverge the attention away from my past.  
“Really? July 4th?”  
“I have been told I am a cancer,” I joke bitterly, but he does not seem to get it.  
“So you were born in 1984?” I nod. “That is sixty-six years younger than me, or was. Now, we’re the same age,” His face pales.  
“Trust me, you seem very much like an old man.” He grins weakly and doodles with a Keno pencil on the corner of his paper placemat. “Where would you like to go after this?”  
“If it’s alright, I would like to head back to your apartment.”  
“Whatever you want to do.” His desire to go home catches me off guard, he seemed to be handling everything fairly well, he hasn’t run off and bought a car. I feel slightly guilty, wondering if I have been neglecting my assignment. Fury wouldn’t be pleased. “Are there any questions I can answer for you?” He shakes his head and the waiter brings over our lunch.  
“It’s all so different. I never imagine I would live in a world where everyone has a telephone in their pocket. And the colors, and clothes, and wealth. Its just, well,”  
“I get it, trust me. You feel like you have been brought to another planet and there seems to be an entirely different set of rules than the ones you know. That nothing is the same.”  
“How did you know?”  
“I’m good at reading people,” I lie. We finish our meal in silence and head out, back to the subway station.  
In the apartment, Steve stands with his bags, looking just as lost as he did in the store.   
“Thank you for taking me shopping, ma’am. I’m sorry, Romanoff.” He corrects, but his heart doesn’t seem in it. “If you don’t mind, I am going to spend some time in my room.” The door clicks shut, and I begin to regret taking him shopping. Perhaps it was too much too fast.  
“Rogers,” I call out, “I’m heading out to run a few errands. If you hear the buzzer, will you please get the groceries from the delivery boy?”  
“Not a problem, ma’am.” I don’t have it in me to correct him as I head out. Running through this neighborhood for the past five years has given me a decent knowledge of the area, along with its stores. Which is how I know, half a mile from here is a frame and art shop.  
By the time I arrive at the store, I am wheezing and have to rest at the bistro table set up outside. A sign with metallic cursive letters reads _The Silver Swan_. When I step in, a gentle bell above the door chimes. The space is bright and airy, smelling of fresh cut wood and oil paints. An old man sits behind the counter and lazing next to it is a giant white poodle. The aisles are wide, and I am surprised by how much the little shop has fit onto its shelves. The poodle comes up beside me and follows me as I browse.  
“Degas is a good judge of character, he doesn’t like just anyone,” The man walks over, wearing a sweater and corduroys despite the warmth outside. “Can I help you find anything?”  
I arrive at the apartment just in time to see the delivery boy leaving, handing him a five-dollar bill for a tip, as Rogers has no cash.  
Inside, I find him once again combing through my books. He is wearing his new clothes and looks far less out of place than he did a few hours ago. Were it not for the slight hunch of his shoulders, and the dip of his head, I would assume he is well. But it had all been a façade before, one even I believed. I had seen him as a man first, but then fell into the same trap as all the others, seeing the legend. His is a man out of time. Everyone he has ever met is dead and nothing is the same.  
“I put away most of the groceries, there were some things I wasn’t sure about.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.  
“Thank you.” I walk into the living room. “Here,” I hold out the bag to him.  
“What is it?”  
“Open the bag and you would know,” I huff. He pulls out the Faber-Castell pencils and two drawing pads. “Sketching seemed to make you feel better during lunch.” He looks at me with an odd, but familiar, smile. And I realize it reminds me of mine. Someone who is broken. Someone who is trying to find the good in life, even if it gets harder to do so every day.  
I go over to my bookshelf, reading through the titles, torn between _Catch-22_ and _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , I go with the latter. Rogers had settled down onto the couch with his new paper and pencils, beginning to sketch. I sit down on the opposite end with my novel.  
For the rest of the afternoon, the apartment is filled with the scratch of pencils and turning of pages.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have lots of things planned for these two! We have baseball games, boat rides, and trips to museums. Thank you all for reading, and stay safe!  
> I hope to get the next chapter of Kindred out tomorrow, but I will be out all day so I'm not sure if I'll have time. But if not Sunday, then by Tuesday! Thank you all again!! :)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for reference to suicidal thoughts and actions**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you are having a great weekend! We are nearing the end of Volition! Only about six chapters left, I think!! I can't believe it!! Thank you all for reading, and as always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

Steve isn’t sleeping. We are going on two weeks living together, now midway through June. The only reason I know he isn’t, is because I’m not either. Though, that is nothing new.  
It’s as I am making a run for more drawing paper, that I see a crowd of people emerging from a side street. My interest piqued; I head over.  
An old boxcar diner sits nestled among brick buildings, looking severely out of place. There is even a small parking lot, a rarity in the city, and I can’t help but think it looks not only out of place, but out of time. An old neon sign in the window blinks _24-Hours_ , and I know where I will be spending my evening tonight.  
Around one o’clock, I knock on Rogers’ door. He opens it up and looks down at my clothes, I am wearing joggers and sneakers.  
“Get dressed.” I look down at his boxers, and he flushes bright red.  
“Where are we going?”  
“Just hurry up.”  
A few minutes later, he emerges from his room, no the guest room, in jeans and a t-shirt. He follows me out of the apartment, obviously curious about where I plan on having us go at this hour.  
We walk past the art supplies store, and down the side street, coming upon the diner. It is easy to see that this is our destination. It is the only light on the street, the rest of the stores shuttered for the night.  
Rogers pushes open the door and a bell above it chimes. Inside, the restaurant is mostly empty, save for a few college aged kids scarfing down hamburgers. It looks as though it hasn’t been updated since it first opened. Though not quite his era, his eyes seem to soften, taking in the space.  
“You kids can sit wherever you’d like,” An older woman in a light blue shirt and apron stands behind the counter. “I’ll bring you over some menus.”  
We take a booth in the corner by the emergency exit, which gives us a view of the entire restaurant.  
The older woman, whose nametag reads Flora, comes over. She hands over two menus and waters. I order a slice of pie and a cup of tea, while Rogers gets a burger and milkshake. After ordering, I pull a book out of my purse. Our drinks arrive a few minutes later, and I sip my tea without looking up from _Heart of Darkness_. The horror, the horror that has become my life.  
“I feel bad that you are up right now.” Steve begins, taking a bite of his burger.  
“I would have been awake anyway.”  
“So, where did you grow up? I’ve told you all about Brooklyn, probably more than you’d like to hear,” He gives me a tentative smile.  
“Volgograd.”  
“The Soviet Union?” He sputters, shock flowing off him in waves.  
“Russia, but yes.”  
“When did you move to the U.S.?”  
“2006,”  
“So you have only been here,”  
“Five years, yes.”   
“But you,”  
“Sound as American as you? I know. That’s why they picked me to assimilate you, to be your glorified nanny. They thought I might get it.” I finish off my pie, “Not to worry Rogers, I am not trying to get state secrets from you or anything.” Rogers pays the bill and we walk back to our apartment. If I try hard enough, I can almost see the stars in the sky. Or rather, I can imagine where they are. It had been ages since I thought of Russia, of Volgograd.  
The sun is just threatening to peak over the horizon as we get back to our building. Rogers gets the door for me and gives me a small smile.  
“Ma’am,” I roll my eyes and step inside. The super soldier is growing on me.

* * *

Maria continues to come for dinner, though I believe now it is just as much to check up on Rogers as it is me. He warms up quickly to her no-nonsense attitude, and her introduction of tacos.  
Rogers takes the train up to New York the last week of June. One of the Howling Commandos has a grandson who is alive, a principal at a high school in Queens. It is to my great surprise, as I settle onto the couch with my new book, _Blink_ by Malcolm Gladwell, that there is a knock at my door. Not the buzzer outside, by the door into my apartment. I get up carefully, mapping out every location of a gun in my apartment, and look through the peephole.  
“Natashalie, we know you’re in there!”  
“I’m sorry, Natasha, I wanted to wait outside but Tony,”  
“We’ve got reservations at a nice French restaurant downtown for dinner.” I bark out a laugh, “See? I told you she was home.”  
“You don’t want to go out in public with me.” Tony rolls his eyes.  
“I promise Pepper won’t be jealous like she was in Monaco,” The strawberry-blonde whacks her boyfriend playfully, “Come on, just open up the door before I do.” I begin to undo the series of locks and step away, heading into the kitchen. I hear the door creak open, followed by footsteps. The coffee maker begins to purr.  
“This place is really cute, Natasha.”  
“It’s small,” Tony adds, “Where’d you go?”  
“I’m making coffee,” And putting off you seeing me.  
“I’ll take mine black, Pep will take light cream,” I can imagine the snark when he sees my scars or useless hands. The jokes that he will come up with. Something about the devil burning. Or ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’. I can’t put this off forever. With a heavy heart, I step into the living room.  
“Is this an original copy of,” Pepper turns around, freezing. Tony looks up from his phone at his girlfriend’s halted question. Both stare at me unabashedly, taking it all in.  
“Coulson didn’t say,” she begins.  
“Natasha,” I head into the kitchen and return with Pepper’s coffee, the machine finally done, and then with Tony’s.  
“Only one hand works,” I explain, sitting down on the couch with my own mug.  
“Before he left, he didn’t say,”  
“That my car exploded with me inside?” I ask dully. Even Tony blanches. “Failed assassination attempt. Ironic, I know.” The silence hangs heavy in the air.  
“I guess we should get going if we are going to make that dinner reservation.” Tony stands up, clapping his hands together.  
“What?” I stare at the inventor.  
“The dinner reservation,”  
“I, why? You want to go out in public with me? When I look like this?”  
“Only if you’re okay being in public with me.” He shrugs.  
“I will get changed,”  
I step out in a sundress that is not going to be nearly nice enough for this restaurant, but all of my cocktail dresses are far too tight. However, neither comment on my inappropriate attire, nor do they rush me as I struggle to lock the door. It is once we get outside, that my stomach drops.  
A brand-new Porsche Spyder is sitting in my assigned parking spot. It is custom, that much is immediately obvious, as the center of the hubcaps have red hourglasses. The shiny black car glows under the sun.  
“Coulson had just said that you had got in a car accident, not that,” Pepper looks flustered. “We also knew it was your birthday, so,” She looks to Tony.  
“You don’t have to keep it. You can auction it off or whatever.” He hands me the keys. Even the key fob has been customized. I then see a town car waiting for us. I lick my lips. “You know what I have never done?” Tony asks, putting on his sunglasses, “I have never taken the subway. Ever. That just seems kind of wrong, doesn’t it?”  
We had a private room at the French restaurant. Tony talks for most of the time, giving me unprovoked updates on his life and Stark industries. He also gives me a hard time for his recommendation about the Avengers.  
“It isn’t as if Fury is actually going to create a band of superheroes,” I roll my eyes. “It would take an alien invasion or something,” I think of Clint, insisting that they are real. He is supposed to be coming to visit soon as well. Pepper begins to bounce ideas off me for business plans. Neither mention the scars again, or that I jump at the smallest of sounds. Or that my eyes continuously dart around the room. They mention none of these things, despite the fact that they notice. It is impossible not to.  
When we arrive back at my apartment, it is nearly eight. Tony is half in the bag, and Pepper looks on with amused affection, rather than her normal irritation, as he continuously proclaims his love for her. She gives her goodbyes and climbs into the car, leaving me with the billionaire.  
“So, I heard you have a new roommate,” He leans back on the town car.  
“That is confidential, Stark.”  
“Oh, we’re back to Stark now? Not Tony?”  
“If you are talking business, yes.”  
“Is he just like they always said? My father, he never shut up about Steve Rogers.”  
“He is different than the myth. Just like how you aren’t as much of a jackass as you want everyone to think.”  
“Red,” I quirk an eyebrow at the nickname, “I’m sorry this happened to you.” I look away, “Don’t worry. I know you could still kick my ass. What is the saying?” He taps his chin, “The appearances of things are deceptive.” Tony winks at my surprise and climbs into the car.  
Rogers returns to D.C. on Sunday evening. He enters the apartment with a takeout bag and his army duffel. His greeting is short, and I hear the microwave powerup in the kitchen. Such a brief hello is out of character for him, but I chalk it up to being tired, or hungry, based on how quickly he flew to the microwave.  
“Natasha, can you come to the dining room?” I close my book with a sigh, imagining that something must have gone wrong with the microwave. Perhaps he tried to nuke pizza. Instead, I find a bowl sitting at my spot at the dining table. “I saw a place called the Russian Tea Room when I was in New York, and I asked for the most Russian thing on the menu,” I sit down, looking at the soup.  
“Is this borscht?” He nods.  
“I hope its okay, it is four hours old at this point, but that microwave seems to be a miracle worker,” I pick up the spoon and take a sip. It tastes like nostalgia.  
“Thank you.”  
“I figured you might be homesick. I know I am,”   
“This was really thoughtful,” He sits down in the chair beside me.  
“If you ever want to talk, I’m all ears. You listen and help me. I guess I just want you to know it can be a two-way street.”   
“I’m tired.” I admit.  
“Me too,” he nods.  
“Don’t you just wish you could go to sleep?” I ask carefully.  
“I tried that. Only slept for seventy years,” His eyes have taken a dark look, and I regret saying anything.  
“Do you want to go to some museums tomorrow? We could go to the Smithsonian Museum of American history. It might be a good way to catch up on everything. I hear they even have an exhibit on you.”  
“I’d like to go,” he agrees.  
“And Steve,” His eyes widen at my use of his first name, “Thank you.”

We leave the apartment mid-morning. The museum is a short subway ride, and Steve seems anxious to get to the museum. He rushes through the National Mall, and I struggle to keep up. I stumble, my feet catching on the pavement. I manage to catch myself, but it also catches Steve’s attention.  
“Natasha, are you okay?” Steve asks, coming to a half. I nod, out of breath, leaning on a bench. “Sorry, I’ll slow down,”  
“I could have beaten you in a race before this,” I gesture wryly to my body. He laughs uncomfortably, but little does he know that I am serious.  
“I’m sorry. I guess I am just nervous to see how they memorialized me. If they gave the others the same treatment. We were a team, a leader is nothing without his men.”  
“You know, it’s saying corny shit like that that makes me want to punch you.” I straighten up, “But then I remember I don’t beat up the elderly.” My lungs fill with the swampy summer D.C. air, and I can feel a sheen of sweat on my forehead.  
“We can go another day,”  
“Don’t patronize me, Rogers,” I warn.  
We enter the museum and go slowly through the exhibits, while I relish the air conditioning, so different than outside. The museum is almost empty, though I suppose that is not entirely odd for a Monday. Despite my living in the city for five years, I have never been to a single museum. Fonzie’s leather jacket and Dorothy’s slippers sits under spotlights, and we see the dresses for the First Lady’s inaugural ball. There is also a replica of Julia Child’s Kitchen and the Greensboro lunch counter. There is also an old ticket booth from Yankee Stadium. He lights up seeing something familiar, and I make a mental note to take him to a baseball game. He becomes particularly quiet as we look at the 9/11 exhibition.  
Then, we reach his exhibit. It is yet to be revealed to the world that he is alive. I cringe at the sign reading 1918-1945. His entire life seems to be on display. His childhood bicycle, his motorcycle from the war.  
“They made my life into, I don’t even know what this is.” He stares at one display case in particular, the one memorializing his childhood.  
“That’s my ma,” He nods to the framed photo next to a charcoal sketch. “That’s her and I at my first communion. That was the only picture I had of the two of us.”  
“She was beautiful.”  
“Died when I was seventeen. But I’m guessing you already knew that though, you’ve read my file.” He tears his eyes away from the photo of his mom, moving onto a section showing his drawings of the war.  
“I know what it’s like for everyone to think they know who you are,”  
“You’re an enigma, you know that?” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts.  
“Good. That is what I was made to be.” The drawings are tragic and much different than the still lifes that have begun to line the walls of the apartment.  
“Made?”  
“Some people are born, others are made. We were born at one point, but now,”  
“We aren’t the same people who were born,” he finishes. “Can I ask you a question?”  
“No.” I head down towards the display of the uniforms all the Commandos wore, Steve right in the center. There is something weirdly familiar about Bucky, but I can’t put my finger on it.  
“Hey Rogers, did Bucky,” I turn around and Steve is gone. I pause and hear gasps for air. I find Steve on the ground, head buried in his hands, at the base of a display. It is a model of his plane, big enough for a child to climb inside.  
“I can’t, I can’t breathe,” Rogers looks up at me desperate. “I haven’t had an asthma attack since before,” I lower myself to the ground across from him.   
“Steve, try to mirror my breathing.” He shakes his head, “Rogers,” I grab his chin, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His pupils are blown. I take exaggerated breaths, using the same techniques Clint has used on me. He struggles to copy me, but after a few rounds, the panic on his face begins to fade.  
“How did you do that? How’d you stop an asthma attack?”  
“That wasn’t asthma, that was a panic attack.” He stands up, rubbing his face. “Steve, I could use a little help,” My cheeks burn with humiliation.  
“Oh, God. Sorry, Nat,” He takes my good hand and helps me off the ground.  
“Nat?”  
“Is that okay?” He looks at me nervously, like I might bite his head off.  
“Yeah, it’s okay.” I steer him gently away from far too accurate replica of the Valkyrie.  
“Thank you for that trick. I think I’m a little shell shocked.”  
“It’s called PTSD now. Post traumatic stress disorder.”  
“Is that why you have nightmares too?”  
“Sharing time is over,” I reply gruffly.  
“Wait, I didn’t mean to be nosy. My ma always said I stick my nose in places where it didn’t belong.”  
“You’re fine.”  
We are standing in front of a glass display, reading _A Fallen Comrade_. There is an enlarged headshot of Bucky, with a description of his life, his friendship with Steve.  
“Even when I had no one, I had Bucky,” Steve explains, staring at the picture.   
“He was family?”  
“Yeah. I’m glad they gave him a section. His family must have been proud.”  
“I’m sure they were proud of you too, Steve.” He looks over at his uniform and I see a moment of longing.  
“They’re all gone.” He takes another shuttering breath, “I think I’m ready to go now.”  
When we arrive back at the apartment, he heads straight to his room, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Steve, Poor Nat. Clint will be back next chapter, hopefully lightening things up for our two super soldiers. The next chapter of Kindred is almost done and will be up Sunday evening EDT!  
> Thank you!  
> (Also, I know in the movies, the Captain America exhibit is in the Air and Space Museum, but to me it made more sense for it to be at the American History Museum) 
> 
> Fun fact: Chris Evans's shield from CA:TWS is really at the Smithsonian Museum of American History!)


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for brief mention of worst events of 20th century and beginning of 21st**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Sorry for the delay, I was having a bit of writer's block on this chapter, but I nipped it in the bud! Thank you for your comments last chapter (and every chapter) I greatly appreciated each and every one.  
> Please enjoy!

  
When I get back to the apartment from physical therapy, Steve is sitting on the couch. He has his head buried in his hands. It had been a few days since our disaster at the Smithsonian, and it had seemed that he was coming back around, that perhaps the trip had not been a total failure.  
“Rogers?” I ask tentatively, setting down my duffel bag. “You okay?” He looks up at me, his eye red from the remnants of tears. “Definitely not okay.”  
“So many shoes, Nat,” My chest tightens.  
“You shouldn’t have gone there alone.”  
“We knew that they were doing something, but not to that extent. Oh my God,”  
“That’s not you’re fault, Steve.”  
“We let that happen. All those people, women, children, _babies_ ,”  
“I know.” I sit down next to him. “I’m sorry you found out on your own.”  
“I was supposed to protect the world, and I let that happen. My own ignorance allowed six million people to be killed.”  
“You did what you could.” I offer, though I know anything will sound weak and empty. I think of all the other events his is probably yet to learn about: Hiroshima, Rwanda, Vietnam, Korea, 9/11. The list could go on for days. The second half of the 20th century, and so far, most of the 21st, has been bloody and disappointing. A showcase of the worst parts of humanity. “You were only one man, a person who did what they could with what they had.”  
He looks back down at his hands, calloused and tough from war. His face is drawn tight, in a mix of anger and despair.  
“What do you do, when the world is too much?” His desperate, pleading voice gets through to even my cold heart.  
“Come on, I’ll show you.” I lead him over to the window in the dining room and pull it open, it is the only one in the unit without a screen. I climb out carefully, onto the fire escape, and I can hear Steve fretting. “I’m not going to jump you oaf, come on.”  
He joins me on the rickety metal structure, and we make our way up the creaking narrow stairs. I had only just started being able to go this way again, switching from taking the service stairs, which was much more conspicuous.  
On the roof, the late June sun is beating down on us. And in a true sign of summer in D.C., the air is thick, almost like breathing water.  
I got over to the small storage container on the roof that is supposed to hold tools for maintaining the central air and heating systems but had been empty. I prop open the metal box and pull out a target, dragging it over to its usual place.  
This setup came to be when Clint had moved away. I no longer had the desire to be in the training centers at headquarters with leering eyes, and though I pretend otherwise, I am not immune to their comments. The mutters about my past, about me.  
Of course, pulling together this arrangement takes longer than it did before. I reach into the storage box and pull out a sleeve of knives.  
I carefully unfurl the lightweight weapon, setting it atop a ventilation unit, and pull out the first knife.  
“You are going to throw that? Up here? What if you miss? It would go into the street, it could hit someone,”  
“I never miss,” I shrug, my skin pulling tight. With my left hand, I throw the knife, it cuts through the air and hits the bullseye with a satisfying thud.  
“Wow,” Steve breathes. I throw the five remaining knives, all landing in the bullseye, and go to collect them.  
“Do you want to try?”  
“I don’t know if that is such a good idea,”  
“What is your weapon of choice then?” I ask, continuing to throw the knives. The repetitive movements, the guaranteed results, relaxes my muscles and mind. “Gun? Staff? Num-chuks?” He looks at his fists. “Oh, I’ve got the perfect place for you.”   
I put away my weapons and target and we head back down into the apartment before locking up and stepping out onto the street.  
“Have you seen that new car in the lot? I wonder who it belongs to,” He looks over my new Porsche. I haven’t laid a finger on it.  
“Who knows,” I mutter, turning down the sidewalk, “Keep up Rogers, I know you’re an old man, but not that old.”  
He stops ogling at the car and walks beside me. Three quarters of a mile, I can make it that far. My still healing lungs struggle in the humidity, but we soon reach out destination.  
“What is this place?” I ignore his question, instead leading him to the side of the building. He gets the door before I have a chance, and I shoot him a glare before stepping inside.  
The front of the building had since been repurposed, turned into a yoga and Pilates studio, but the back half remains the same. Our steps echo in the hall of the cavernous building. Metal lockers line the walls, most empty, and pass through an entryway, opening up to the main room. There is a boxing ring in the corner, and punching bags hang, reading to be used. More lockers line the walls, save for a dingy glass office, where the manager, Gianni, sits. He gives a wave, not leaving the room.  
“Go ahead, hit one,” I nod to the nearest bag, taking a seat on a bench. My muscles cry in relief as I stretch out my legs.  
“I don’t think that is such a good idea,” He looks over his shoulder at the office.  
“Gianni won’t say anything. And I know the owner, they won’t mind either.” Of course, I own the building. I had bought it from Gianni’s father when he was about to lose it in 2009, right after the market crashed. The club had been in their family since World War II, and it seemed wrong for such a neighborhood establishment to disappear. It was Gianni’s idea for the front to be a yoga studio and is run by his wife.  
“If you’re sure,”  
“Rogers, you can destroy every punching bag in here if you want. Whatever it takes.”  
He takes a swing at the bag, not even wrapping in his hands. His knuckles split as he finishes off the first, the sand spilling out onto the floor. He makes no move to stop, moving onto the second bag, and then a third. When he finally does pause to take a breath, his blood is dripping onto the floor, sweat beads travelling down his face.  
“Better?” He nods, silent. I go over to one of the lockers, pulling out a first aid kit. “Sit,” Steve does as I ask, and after disinfecting the wounds, I wrap them in gauzes, tearing it with my teeth. “Next time wrap your hands. I’m not going to make a habit of this.” I gesture to his wounds.  
“Thank you, this helped, a lot.”  
“Good,” I stand up. “I’m going to check in with Gianni and we can head out.” If the manager had any thoughts about my appearance, he his them well, and we established an agreement that if Steve can come in and destroy a few bags a week, I’ll give him three hundred a month off rent.  
We had been at the gym for nearly two hours, and now, stepping out into the street, the day had cooled considerably. Nearly seven, it is finally possible to breathe once more.  
“Do you box?” Steve asks, “I mean, did you, or um,” He stumbles over his words.  
“Yes. Knife throwing is not my only skill set.” I think of throwing down Tony Stark’s bodyguard, Happy, in the ring.  
That night, or rather morning depending on one’s perspective, we take our usual seat at the diner. Steve had been rather quiet after the boxing session and during dinner.  
I sip my black coffee, reading _Babylon Revisited_ , waiting for him to speak. He will have to eventually.  
“Nat,”  
“Yes?” I look up from my book, and see Rogers drumming his fingers nervously.  
“What happened to you?” I am startled by his boldness, and he seems to regret his words immediately, “I’m so sorry. That was rude. God, my ma would have dragged me out of here by my ear. I shouldn’t have said anything. It isn’t my place to pry,”  
“No. It’s fine.” I close my book, “You can ask. I just figured Fury would have told you.” He looks as though he is trying to disappear. “It was an assassination attempt. They hit my car and then it blew up with me inside it.”  
“And you’re alive?” he gapes.  
“What can I say? I’m tenacious to a fault,” I grin at him and can feel my skin puckering. I drop the smile and go back to my book. “Fire and ice, right Rogers?”  
“That is terrible, Natasha. I am so sorry.” I am not going to get the chance to read again tonight.  
“There was a bounty on my head for fifty million,”  
“Dollars?”  
“Yes. It’s nice to know your worth.” I think of the thumb drive that I finally garnered the courage to look at just weeks ago, “The posting has been removed, all records of it scrubbed. It was like the hit never existed.”  
“Do you know why?”  
“Why they put a hit on me? No. I can probably guess it has to do with my time before SHIELD, but who really knows. You can’t escape your past, somehow it is always there.” I finish off my coffee. The clock above the counter nearby reads two-thirty. “I have to head back; I need to get to the office by six tomorrow.”  
“I’ll walk you back,” He pushes away his half-eaten slice of pie.  
“You can finish your dessert, I’ll be fine.”  
“I’m done.”  
“No one is going to kill me on the street tonight, Steve.”  
“What if I don’t want to walk back alone?”  
“You’d be fine,” I look up at his towering figure.  
“I just like the company.” We put a twenty on the table for Flora and I brush my hair away from my face, the air still sticky.  
“You know, it is a little too on the nose,”  
“What is?”  
“Captain America eating apple pie,” He snorts, before turning to me with a small smile,  
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, my favorite is actually lemon meringue.”  


* * *

The next morning at sunrise I head out of the apartment to go to SHIELD. My car waits in the small parking lot, glimmering even in the dull grey of the early morning. Hesitantly, I step closer to it. The keys are in my bag. I could get in. I could do it.  
My mouth is dry, and I black spots entering my vision. _You were only waiting for this moment to arise_. The car could flip while I am going over the bridge to the Triskelion. And then I’d be trapped underwater. Or someone could hit me from behind, and I would go through the windshield, dying slowly and painfully. Or worse, not dying at all.  
I arrive at my office before anyone can see me coming in, and I don’t plan on leaving until well after everyone is supposed to be gone. There is a mountain of paperwork and translations I can go through. Steve had told me he had plans for most of the day, doing what I cannot imagine.  
The Mandarin translation is taking longer than I expected, and I find myself getting irritated with being in my office. It is too much like when I worked in Stark Industries’ legal department. A dead-end job in corporate hell.  
“Hi Tash,” I look up from my files, surprised to hear the familiar voice.  
“Clint?” I push back my chair, elated at seeing my best friend. He launches himself at me, pulling me into a hug. I allow it for a few seconds, for his sake, before pulling away. I push down the anxiety thrumming through me, instead focusing on seeing him for the first time in months.  
“Sorry, I just really missed you,”  
“I missed you too,” I nudge his shoulder, trying to apologize for my reaction to his hug. “Why are you here? What about Laura and the kids?”  
“Don’t worry, not a mission. Just came to give my assessment on some new recruits,” He walks over to my desk, looking back at me. “You look good, Nat.”  
“I was always the better liar between the two of us,” I close my laptop and gather up m papers.  
“Let me help,”  
“I’ve got it!” I snap, as he reaches to assist, “I can do it.”  
“I know. I’m sorry.” He backs off.  
“Sorry,” I don’t meet his eyes as I pull together the documents, sliding them all into my purse.  
“Tash,”  
“Want to head back to the apartment? It’s pizza night,”  
“Of course.” He waits as I lock the door behind me, “What are you even doing here on a Saturday anyway?”  
“It’s the only time you can get any work done around here.” It is the only time people won’t see me.  
“So how do you want to celebrate your birthday?”  
“What?” I turn to him as we stroll down the hall. “That’s not until next weekend,”  
“Sorry Nat, today is July 2nd.” We get into the elevator and Clint presses B1 for the parking garage, while I press 1. “You parked your car in the lot?” I don’t meet his eyes, “Nat,”  
“I’m trying, I just can’t not yet.”  
“have you been in a car since,” Since I freaked out at the farm and ended up losing three hours.  
“It’s better for the environment. I’m not going to the office too often anyway. This was my first time here in a month.” Not included the three times a week I come here for physical therapy.  
“You work from home?”  
“I was given a new assignment. You know that. I figured you were really here to meet him, I’m just a bonus,” I try to flash my old confident smile, but only half my face moves, while the other is just my tight skin pulling.  
We sit next to each other on the subway. Clint leans back against the seat, inspecting me, picking me apart.  
“I am working on it. A few nights ago I watched Fast and the Furious. Today, I stood close to the car for the first time. I call that progress.”  
“You are giving yourself exposure therapy? Good God, Nat.”  
“And I can do this,” I curl my fingers in, ever so slightly. “And If you give me some condescending comment about progress or ‘great job’ I will kill you.”  
“Eh, I’ve seen better,” I shove him, rolling my eyes. “I love you Nat.”  
“I love you too, Clint.”  
We get off at our stop and walk through our old neighborhood, now mine alone. He points out the small park where Cooper took his first steps, and the bike shop he went to during his Lance Armstrong phase.  
“So, does your new roommate know about Laura and the kids?”  
“No, of course not,” My brows knit together, “They are off the books.”  
“I just figure, if you can’t trust Captain America,”  
“It is not that I don’t trust him, it is just one more person who could become compromised. I am not going to risk that.”  
“You are more paranoid about it than I am. Two safehouses doesn’t seem necessary, Nat.”  
“I know one location, you know one location. It keeps everyone safe.”  
“Hey, okay. I’m sorry. You’re right.”  
“Don’t do that!” I rub my hand down my face in frustration, “I’m still me. Please see that. Or I’m almost me. Just don’t treat me like I’m someone else.” We reach the apartment. He looks up fondly at the old brick building. “You miss it?” Like every time I am angry with him, it never holds.  
“Sometimes, but I love the farm. Being a real salt of the earth kind of guy.”  
“I know,” I laugh and Clint smiles brightly, “Wipe that stupid look of your face, you’re going to want to save it for who you’re about to meet,”  
“Did you get a cat?” He asks, playing along.  
“More like a golden retriever,” Steve would roll his eyes at that joke. We step into the building and take the elevator to our floor. Clint says nothing about neglecting the staircase.  
We reach the apartment and Clint seems almost giddy, his trigger finger tapping nervously against his leg. I unlock the door and push it open.  
“Steve, I’m home and I brought company!”  
“It is Maria again?” Steve steps out of the kitchen and smiles at Clint. He sticks out his hand, “Hi, I’m Steve,”  
“Clint, it’s an honor to meet you, sir, or Captain,” Oh, I am never letting him live this down.  
“This is my partner that I told you about.”  
“Oh, you used to live next door,” Steve nods, “It’s great to put a face to the name. I hear you are great with a bow,” Steve is much better at small talk than me. We settle down at the table with the three boxes of pizza.  
“Two meat lovers pizzas? Rogers, you are better than the stories.” I expect Steve to wince at the reference to the legendary figure he has become, but instead he laughs.  
“Glad I am exceeding expectations.”   
Clint gets up to grab a six pack of beer from the kitchen, and we settle into easy stories. Theories about how Fury lost his eye, what TV shows Steve has to watch, and a debate about how fast I can actually read.  
It is sitting at the table with the two of them, that I feel something flicker inside of me. A warmth within that I thought had been snuffed out with the rest of the fire around me. For at least a moment, I feel content. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked this chapter!!  
> Have a great week!
> 
> *The shoes as the beginning of the chapter is a reference to an exhibit at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. A link to an image of the exhibit is below. There are 4,000 shoes found. There is also a link to an article about the museum and the shoes in particular. I visited this museum when I was ten years old, and it still stays with me to this day. When you enter the museum, you are given a booklet/ID card of a person your age and gender, and as you walk through, everyone is in a stunned silenced. If you are ever in D.C., I highly recommend visiting this museum.   
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/51/ce/44/51ce44c2c3ffc36cfc5167c43d0cdf31.jpg   
> https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/at-the-holocaust-museum-treading-quietly-through-the-unspeakable/2012/08/23/734524bc-eb15-11e1-9ddc-340d5efb1e9c_story.html 
> 
> Edit: This will probably be the last chapter of Volition for a week or two. I’m feeling a little uninspired and need to brainstorm a bit. Not to worry, Kindred will be business as usual!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry if you got a notification last night, I updated and then removed the chapter because I wasn't happy with it, but I fixed it up and here we are! Hope you all enjoy! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

“Natasha, how could you deprive Steve of such a fundamental twenty-first century experience,” I roll my eyes, opening up my book.   
“I am a horrible person, deepest apologies,”  
“Has she denied you any other pleasures of the modern era? Were you at least shown a microwave, the internet?”  
“Natasha has been great,” Steve defends.   
“Really? She hasn’t tried to bite your head off?”   
“That only happens a few times a week now,” I look up, surprised at the joke. Clint grins.   
“Well, tonight we are watching _Diehard_ , and Nat should be ashamed of herself for not having shown this to you sooner.”   
“I’ll be sure to add it to my list of crimes,” I turn the page. Clint pops in the DVD and goes into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a giant bowl of popcorn. He plops down on the couch next to me, jostling my book out of my lap. It is almost instantly back in my lap, as he is able to move much faster now that I can. His shoulder bumps mine lightly.   
“So, how long have you two been together?” Steve asks, taking a sip of his Coke.   
“What?” I laugh, “Me? With him?”  
“Oh God, so gross,” Clint agrees, “Nat is like my sister, I could never.”   
“I’m sorry, I just assumed, you are very comfortable with each other,”   
“She’s my best friend,” He glances over at me, his eyes warm, and then his face twists into an impish grin, “Even if she doesn’t understand the cinematic masterpiece that is the _Diehard_ series,”   
“Just press play, you dork,”   
“Don’t forget, joint birthday party on Sunday before I leave,” Clint picks up the remote, “I never miss an excuse for cake,”

“Hey, you with me?” I think I feel hands rubbing my shoulders. But not. None of this feels real. Not real. I don’t feel real. Floating. I’m floating.   
Cold. There is something cold in my hand. I feel that. I blink, feeling the world coming back into focus. I unfurl my fist, and an ice cube slides out.   
“You with me, Nat?” I nod my head, still not feeling quite right, “Verbal confirmation, Tash.”   
“Here?” I think. I think I’m here.   
“Five things you see?”   
“Ice,” I look at the rapidly melting cube sitting on black metal slats, “Fire escape,” I glance up, “We are on the fire escape.” My train of thought veers. Fire escape. Why am I on the fire escape?  
“Yeah,”   
“I came out here,” Everything is slow, like I have had too much to drink. The pieces starts to fall back into place. “I ruined the party, right?”   
“No. No one thinks that.”   
“I didn’t mean to, really,”  
“Nat, no one blames you. It was stupid, we should have thought,” he rubs his face, “The candles were a bad idea.”   
“I, um,” I lean back against the brick exterior of the building.   
“Can you come back inside?”  
“Fury and Maria left,”  
“Yes,”  
“Steve?”  
“Cleaning up, to be honest, he didn’t seem like he wanted to celebrate in the first place,”  
“How long?”   
“You’ve been out here about an hour,” I nod, “Do you want to come back inside?”  
“Yes,” I make no move to do so.   
“We can stay out here a little longer,” He sits back beside me. “I can stay longer too. I don’t have to go tonight.”  
“You have people who need you.”  
“I have another person who needs me here,”   
I had not realized how much I missed Clint until he was back. Why he wants to be around me, let alone be my friend, is impossible to understand. I am of little use to him anymore, I can’t do field work for the foreseeable future. If he wanted to forget our friendship until I am cleared once more, I would not hold it against him.   
“I’ve missed you,” I admit, and wait for the inevitable teasing. It doesn’t come. Instead, his shoulder presses against mine.   
We stay like this for another hour, breathing in the muggy summer night air and existing in silence.   
I convince Clint to catch his flight and once again, it is just Steve and I. The next morning, my guilt for ruining our early birthday party still weighs on me as I walk into the living room, carrying the wrapped present. I had almost given up and put it in a giftbag. Almost.   
Steve looks up from his book on the Cold War, as he is still trying to learn as much about everything that he has missed.   
“Hey, happy birthday,” Steve shoots me a smile. He doesn’t mention last night, nor does he mention the fact that I didn’t go to the diner.   
“Happy birthday,” I echo. I begin to wonder if I made a mistake with this gift. That I misread the situation. That this act of theft would not be appreciated. This goes against his morals.   
“Are we exchanging gifts now?” He gets up from the couch, heading to his room, “I’ll be right back,”   
Steve does appear a moment later, with a perfectly wrapped present, tied with a bow. It makes me feel even worse about my shoddy wrapping job. I sit down in an armchair, and he presents the package. I carefully put down my gift for him and take the present. Unwrapping proves to be nearly as much of a challenge as wrapping. Finally, I am able to tear off the paper. A laugh escapes me. The book, _The Master and Margarita_ , has a black cat on the cover, holding a handgun. It is oddly fitting. I look up at Steve and he appears nervous. Perhaps a laugh was not the best reaction.  
“I love it, really.”  
“It is first edition, I went to this old bookstore downtown and this was in a locked case. The author is Russian,”   
“Thank you, Steve. This is very thoughtful. I enjoy this one a lot, have you read it?” He shakes his head, “You should, it’s good.” I put down the book and pick up my gift to him.   
He opens the card first, his face brightening at the sight of two tickets to this afternoon’s Nationals’ game against the Cubs.   
“I hope you don’t have plans,”  
“I can’t wait, thank you,” They were last minute, I bought them when I was out with Clint on Saturday, the seats are terrible, but he doesn’t seem to mind. My heartrate picks up as he takes off the paper for the main present.   
“Natasha,” He breathes, staring at the frame, “How did you get a copy?”  
“That isn’t a copy,”   
“They gave it to you?”  
“Not exactly,” I give him a small smile, “Easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission,”  
“You stole this from the Smithsonian?” He straightens up in alarm, “Won’t they realize it is gone? How did you even get in?”  
“Please, it was so easy to break in there, I could have done it when I was seven. The place has barely any real security. And I made a photocopy and put it in their frame, but I thought you should have the real one,” For a few moments, Steve says nothing, and I glance up at him once more. There are tears in his eyes that he is trying hard not to shed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed,”  
“All I got you was that crummy book,”   
“No! I love the book,”  
“This is all that’s left of her. Thank you, you gave me a piece of my old life back. You gave me my ma.” My shoulders sag in relief. I hadn’t messed up. I had done well.  
“I should go get ready for the game,” I get up from the chair.  
“Nat, this means the world to me. You have no idea,” He doesn’t take his eyes off the photo.   
That afternoon, the subway is packed with an eclectic mix of people. There are some in baseball gear, most in Americana, young and old. We reach the stadium and I do my best to ignore the stares. Steve doesn’t seem to notice them at all.   
Inside the stadium, I can feel myself melt into the crowd. There are so many people that I am instantly anonymous, it is a welcome comfort. However, it is so hot that I had to wear terrycloth shorts with my gifted jersey from Clint, one of my two presents from him. It is my first time baring my legs in public, or even outside my bedroom, and I feel slightly exposed. Steve is rattling off statistics and is surprised to hear that the Curse of the Billy Goat that was proclaimed before he went into the ice, held up.   
“The Red Sox broke their curse in 2004,” I inform him as we begin to head to the stands to find our seats, “You know, sometimes I think you have a Boston accent, not Brooklyn,”   
“God, Bucky used to say the same thing,” he groans good naturedly.  
Our seats are in the last row and the steps begin to hurt the tight scars around my knees. This combined with the heat is causing my discomfort to rise. I stumble, my muscles crying for relief, and Steve catches me before I can hit the ground. I flinch at his sudden touch, and he quickly releases me once I have found my footing.   
“I’m sorry,”   
“I’m okay,” I say at the same time, my face burning with shame. Thankfully, we are almost at our spot, only one row away. I slide into the chair, everything aching. Steve quickly orders lemonades, and I am thankful that we are under an awning, a slight respite from the overbearing sun. “We should order beers,”   
“I can’t get drunk,” Steve shakes his head sadly.   
“I won’t get drunk off beer either, but it seems a crime to not have it at a baseball game. That and some hotdogs.” He looks like he has a question but changes his mind.  
“Hotdogs and beer, coming up,” He whistles to one of the men carrying around food.   
“I’ve got it, it’s your birthday,” I reach for my purse.  
“It’s yours too, and you paid for the game,” He settles back down to the seat, presenting the goods. The first at bat has just finished.   
“It’s my ninety-third birthday,” Steve mutters, staring out into the field, “But also my twenty-eighth. Kind of loses meaning,” I think how, eventually, mine will as well. For now, my age and my appearance match well enough. I just look really young for twenty-seven, though my assortment of scars is serving as an excellent distraction. “When I was a kid, for my birthday, my ma would always get me new art supplies, no matter how tight money was. Even if it was just some pens she nabbed from work. Then Bucky, he’d bring over leftovers, something good like pot roast, they usually had a little to spare, when the everyone else didn’t.” Steve gets lost in the happy memory; a childhood filled with love. “How did you spend your birthdays as a kid?” I think of my twelfth birthday, being introduced to what being a Widow really means by the Winter Soldier. And my sixteenth. Nothing was worse than my eighteenth.   
“I didn’t really start celebrating until Clint saved me,”   
“Saved you?” However, before I can answer, a line drive comes our way, a definite foul ball. Steve reaches out, catching it in his bare hand. He polishes it against his shirt and then hands it over. “A souvenir,” He grins, “Since the crackerjack guy never made his way up here.”  
“Thanks,” I turn it over in my hand.   
The Nationals win, and despite Steve’s chosen team not playing, he becomes invest in the game, rooting four our adopted city’s home team.   
We arrive at the dinner hours earlier than usual, and Flora quickly seats us and treats us to burgers and pie on the house, even joining us for a milkshake later on when we are the only two there.   
I finish off my milkshake, and Steve eat the last bite of his lemon meringue pie. It nearly nine, and the fireworks will be starting soon. Someone blows an airhorn out on the street.   
“Clint gave me a weekend at Virginia Beach for my birthday, we used to vacation there every summer before he moved,” I sit up straight, “Do you want to come?”  
“Are you sure?”  
“I wouldn’t be inviting you if I wasn’t,” I huff, annoyed.   
“Yes ma’am,” He looks amused by my sharp response. I don’t mean to be so prickly, but Steve no longer seems bothered by it.   
“I told you not to call me ma’am, Rogers.” I put a fifty on the table and we head out into the streets. They are littered with red, white, and blue confetti. A few streets over, _American Girl_ plays faintly.   
As we step into the apartment, I hear the first firework go off. Steve tenses for a moment, and I wait for a repeat of the incident in the museum, but then he relaxes slightly.   
“Want to go up to the roof and watch?” I ask. He nods and we head up the fire escape. Surprisingly, we are the only two up here.  
“One second,” Steve dashes down the steps and returns moments later with an armful of blankets and pillows. He gathers them into a small nest, and we settle down, watching the fireworks go off in the distance.   
“It’s my car,” Another explodes, sending gold glitter into the night sky.   
“What?”  
“The Porsche in the parking lot. It is mine. A gift from Tony Stark and Pepper Potts.”  
“Howard Stark’s son?”   
“It was my birthday present. I can’t even bring myself to touch it.” I keep my eyes trained on the sky, “I want it, but I can’t. I haven’t been able to get in a car since. Sorry for all the subway rides.”  
“You’ll get there,” He sounds so sure, like there is no doubt in his mind.   
“You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”  
“If I have learned anything in the twenty-first century, it is to not underestimate you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I hope to have an update for Kindred by Friday, Saturday at the latest
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Hope you are doing well! I had a crazy long day- worked 8-5 and then had a Zoom class from 6-9, I am beat!! But, I was in the mood to write and wanted to get out another chapter!!  
> To my readers in California and Oregon, I hope you are staying safe, the pictures and stories from the area are terrifying.  
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter!! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

It is during the hottest week of the year that the central air system in the building breaks. Washington D.C. is experiencing its hottest temperatures in over a decade, leaving everyone in the city sweltering.  
And everything hurts. All of my clothes feel too tight against my skin, like everything is grating against it. The heat begins to become so unbearable; I consider checking into a hotel or going to stay at headquarters. Steve has been gone for hours, and I had been given no indication as to where he was going, but my assumption is the gym.  
I step out of the cold shower, the only reprieve I have found, just as the buzzer goes off for the washing machine. I step out into the hall in my bathrobe and open up the dryer to load in my clothes, only to find it full. Steve’s clothes sits in the machine, freshly dried. I take them out, putting mine in, and head into his room to drop off his laundry. As I drop the clothes on the bed, I notice how large they are. Much different than my tight t-shirts and tanks. Without giving myself too long to think about it, I grabbed the most worn of the shirts, bringing it into my bedroom.  
As I slip it over my head, it offers a great deal of relief. The fabric is cool against my skin and allows it to breathe. I pull on the terrycloth shorts as well and am feeling better than I have in days.  
The door to the apartment opens, and I hear keys jingling. He accepted the six-lock system better than most would, accepting that that is the way things are.  
“Hey Nat, I just talked to the building manager. He said that the A.C. will be fixed over the weekend while we’re gone. So, when we get back, it should be all set. What do you want to do for dinner?”   
“Thank God,” I step out into the living area and head towards the kitchen for the takeout menus. I feel his eyes on me, almost inspecting, and I remember I am wearing a piece of his clothing.  
“Is that my shirt?” An eyebrow cocks up. I push down my embarrassment.  
“You left your clothes in the dryer. That is a communal space, leaving this,” I gesture to the ‘Go Army’ t-shirt, “fair game,”  
“Noted. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when I see your clothes in there.” I look for any hint of annoyance but find none and feel the tension in my shoulders release.  
“You couldn’t pull of my look,” I tease, feeling better. “So what are you thinking for dinner? I was leaning towards Mexican, but ice cream might be more appropriate,”

* * *

I am thankful that the Amtrak runs between Washington D.C. and Virginia Beach. The alternatives were biplane or car, neither would have gone well.  
Steve sits stiffly in his seat across from me. A small table sits between us, where our coffees and books wait. He has moved from the initial stages of the Cold War to the Korean War. That is all the twentieth century seemed to be, war after war.  
“It was nice of Clint to get you this trip,” he offers, picking up his black coffee.  
“He just wants me out of the city, thinks I work too much,”  
“Well, you did bring your work with you,” I wonder how he knew I brought my laptop, but then I realize he is talking about himself.  
“You’re very funny, Rogers. A real hoot,” I smirk, opening my own book, _To the Lighthouse._  
The train ride lasts more than five hours, but neither of us mention how quick the alternative forms of transportation would have been.  
We get off the train and I realize that we have no way of getting to our hotel. Steve turns around, seeing my hesitation.  
“What’s wrong?” He carries both of our bags, and I feel useless. Just get in a taxi. I can get in a taxi. I can do it, it’s fine. “Nat?”  
“We have to hail a cab. Do you have cash for a tip?”  
“Let’s see how far the hotel is, maybe we can walk. It is gorgeous out. But if you want to take a car, I can get us one.” He waits for my answer. “I’ll go to the information desk, okay?” I nod.  
People mill about, mostly ignoring me. One child stop sand stares, pointing at me. I get a rushed apology from his mother before he is pulled along. I want to disappear. This was a bad idea. Clint wanted me to leave my bubble. Get back into the world. I don’t think the world wants me.  
“Nat, there is a river walk that is supposed to be great, leads right up to our hotel.”  
“How far?”  
“A mile,” A few months ago, I would have laughed at the insulation that I can’t walk that far. Now, the task is daunting.  
“Well,” I slowly raise myself from the bench, “We’ll have to get going if we want to be there before dark,”  
I don’t have to take a break until we are nearly halfway there. The walk is beautiful, and under different circumstances, I would probably enjoy it. According to the map, it stretches over ten miles. I can imagine darting back and forth, the salty air filling my lungs. Instead, I pause to catch my breath. But this is the only break I give myself, and though it is a crawl, this is the furthest I have walked since the assassination attempt. A mile. It is a little victory, but a victory nonetheless. Steve begins to check us in, before running over to my spot in the lobby, his face stretched into a grimace.  
“What’s wrong?” A million thoughts rush through my head. We are at the wrong hotel. Wrong date. Someone recognized him.  
“We only have one room,” I laugh, and his eyes widen, “Natasha, you are an unmarried woman. I can’t share a hotel room with you. It isn’t proper,”  
“Jesus Christ, Steve. It’s not like we are going to share a bed. There are two queens.”  
“But,”  
“I promise not to try anything if you don’t,” I joke dryly. Color rushes into his cheeks.  
“I’ll go finish check in,” He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, heading back towards the concierge.  
The room is nondescript, looking like every other four star hotel room in the country. Steve sets down the bags and goes over to the windows.  
“Look at that view,” he whistles.  
“Mhm,” I lie down on the nearest bed. The walk took more out of me than I would care to admit. “You can go explore, I just need to lay down for a little while,”  
“I’ll wait for you,” He sits down in the armchair.  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
“I want to.”  
When I wake up, it is nearly time for dinner. To my great surprise, Steve has made us a reservation at the hotel’s restaurant.  
“I got us an outside table, if that’s okay.”  
I change into a black sundress and we head down to the restaurant. I try to hold my head high as we walk through the restaurant to the patio outside. It overlooks the river, and the sun is just beginning to set, the sky starting to turn pink.  
“This is good practice,” I open menu.  
“For what?”  
“For whomever I set you up with,” Steve blanches.  
“What? You have to get out there at some point,” I shoot him a teasing smile.  
“Maybe someday,” I am about to ask about the woman in his compass, when the waiter walks over. A ferry pulls into the dock nearby, “So, you said you used to vacation here with Clint,”  
“Well not here. Virginia Beach, but the train doesn’t go there. It is about an hour away,” I take a sip of my recently received cocktail, trying to calm my nerves. Not that the weak drink does anything.  
“What did you do?” I think of going to the zoo with Cooper, lying on the beach, cookouts, bonfires.  
“We went to the beach,” I settle on that answer, swirling the drink with its stirrer. “But I can’t exactly lay out and get a tan right now.” A hint of bitterness creeps into my voice and I force it down. The horn of the ferry echoes out, and Steve looks over his shoulder.  
“We could go out tomorrow, take a cruise around the harbor.”  
“Yeah, okay,” I agree, feeling guilty for being so on edge. And I won’t be able to handcuff myself tonight. There is no place. And I can’t do that in front of Steve. It would raise too many questions. We should I got separate rooms. I could have chained myself to the plumbing in the bathroom.  
“Natasha, you okay?”  
“Fine.” I look and see our food has arrived.  
“We can go back to the city,”  
“I said I am fine.” I realize I ordered the same food at him, down to the cook on the steak. I don’t even like it well done.

“Again!” There is a sharp tap on the floor. I go en pointe and feel the crunch of glass. A cane whips across the back of my head. I see double for a moment, but continue the exercise, “Don’t look at your feet, look at me!” Madame scolds. I meet her eyes. There is a bullet hole in the center of her forehead, blood dripping down her face and into her mouth, dying her teeth red. The room is getting hotter. In my peripheral, reflecting in the mirror, I see the studio filling with flames, just as it was the last time I ever saw the space.   
I go to run, and feel someone holding my hair, my long braid, before it was chopped off. Cool metal brushes the back of my neck, and I hear the mechanical fingers tighten.  
“Silly little spider,” she reaches forward, jerking my chin up, “You’ll burn with the rest of us,”  
The music continues to play, warping and changing until I recognize the instrumental. The flames are getting closer, and as I jump up in a plie, the flames fill the wood floor.  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._  
I am engulfed, suffocated. The flames wrap tighter around me, constraining my movements. This is it. This is the moment.  
“Natasha! Natasha, wake up!”  
I gasp for air in the pitch-black room, tangled up in sheets. Someone is touching me. With a quick twist, I have pulled my switchblade from under my pillow, lashing out at the man. The hand drops and jumps away. The lights flicker on. I pant, ready to fight the intruder. There was a metal hand. But that was a dream. That was a dream, right?  
“Nat, are you okay?” I look over and see Steve standing by the light switch, his hands raised in surrender. “It’s just me, you’re okay.”  
I drop the knife, my heart still pounding. I am not there. I’m not in the Red Room. I am not with him. I am not in the car.  
“Sorry, I didn’t hurt you, right?” I inspect him, searching for blood.  
“No, it was close, but no.” He approaches cautiously. “Are they always that bad?”  
“No, only sometimes.” Most times.  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
“No.” I lie back down, wondering how much he heard. How much I said.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Steve pokes halfheartedly at his eggs, and I take a bite of dry toast.  
“I’m looking forward to the ferry,” I break the tension. “It should be fun.”  
“We lucked out with this weather,” he replies, and we fall back into an uncomfortable silence.  
“I’m sorry for whatever you heard last night, and for trying to stab you.”  
“No, please don’t apologize,” his eyes widen, “I’m just sorry that you have had to experience,” Steve’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down.  
After breakfast, I get tickets for the ferry from the front desk, while Steve wanders in the gift shop. He returns a novelty camera and souvenir t-shirts.  
We head out to the river walk, and I am thankful for my light sweater as a gentle sea breeze blows in. There are people racing by on their bikes, and families walking dogs. It is achingly normal. Steve takes pictures of the ocean and the sailboats, his artist eye shining through, even with a disposable camera.  
We board the boat and find a corner in the back that is nearly empty. The boat crawls out of port, beginning to make its way through the harbor. There is a narration about the nautical history of the area, but it easily fades into the background.  
I push up my sunglasses and bathe in the sun’s warmth, leaning forward on the railing. My loose sweater falls off my shoulders, pooling around my elbows. For a moment, the world fades away. The salty air kisses at my skin, the spray cool on my lips. I sigh in contentment, wishing I could hold onto this feeling and carry it with me wherever I go.  
The ride ends after an hour, and we are once again on shore, both in better spirits. We head into a tap room to try local beers and visit museums.  
We go into a local arcade, where I best Steve in skee-ball and the claw. I offer my tickets to a kid as we walk out.  
“Beating you was the only prize I needed,” I tease.  
“I’ll have to take you to Coney Island one day, it’s a blast. My friend Bucky and I, we used to go whenever we had a few cents to spare and the Dodgers weren’t playing. We’d eat hot dogs and cotton candy until we got sick, and go into the fun house, and the bumper cars. God, we would stay all night if we could. And Buck, he’d get all the dames.” Steve smiles fondly, “It is still there, right? I didn’t check when I went up,”  
“Yes, still there.” I quietly confirm, touched that he would want to share something so personal with me.  
“And the Ferris Wheel, a great view. Next time we are both in New York,” He promises.  
“I’m going to hold you to that, Rogers.”  
My nightmares the second night are far less violent and do not cause either of us to wake. In the morning, I mentally prepare myself for the walk back to train station. All the activity over the weekend has left me sore and tired. The doors to the hotel slide open and I turn to head towards the path.  
“Nat, where are you goin’?” I look over my shoulder and see Steve waiting by a pedicab.  
“Oh my God,” I laugh.  
The cyclist tips his hat to me as I approach the vehicle, if one can call it that. Steve pretends to bow and offers his hand, helping me to the seat. He then climbs in himself, holding the bags on his lap.  
“Thank you,” I tell him earnestly. He grins, and I find myself looking forward to our trip to Coney Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like this chapter! So many Steve and Nat moments! The story is going to speed up a bit- the next chapter takes place during the fall, and we are going to see Nat hitting some major strides in her recovery! Stay safe and healthy!  
> -Carly


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry I kind of dropped off the face of the earth this week. Life has been absolutely crazy busy. Social obligations, school, bills, working thirteen hour days. I'm dead. And I have decided to take up baking and painting again, after taking a rather lengthy break from them both (six months and eight years, respectively). I'm in that weird in between stage of life where I'm not a kid but I'm not an adult? I don't know what you call that. Anywho, sorry for my little rant!  
> I have not had time to sit down and write everything at once like I normally do, sorry if this chapter seems a bit disjointed. Thank you all for ready and I hope you are doing well!! As always, comments and feedback are always welcomed and appreciated!

I slam the door of the apartment behind me. Physical therapy, more specifically gum-snapping-perky Fran, can bite me. _Good work, Agent Romanoff_. _Amazing Progress, Agent Romanoff. You will be running again in no time, Agent Romanoff_.  
It has been three weeks since our trip to Virginia. Three hot weeks under the blistering D.C. sun, the air swampy and thick.  
I grab a glass from the cabinet and begin to fill it with water from the sink, still worn out from PT, despite the subway ride back. Though it was probably that I took the stairs, rather than the elevator. Because apparently, two flights of stairs can now take the Black Widow out of commission. If they could all see me now- Ivan, the Winter Soldier, Madame B. Well, they wouldn’t have let me get this far. They would have cut their losses as soon as they saw the charred body of the car.  
Yelena wouldn’t have. Yelena would have stayed with me, even if I begged her to go. She would sit and talk like when we were children, whispering into the night.  
There had been one major stride this week, one improvement that I allow myself a note of pride for. I carefully open and close my hand. The movement is still jerky, but feeling is starting to come back.  
I look at the cup I had placed on the counter. With cautious optimism, I raise my right hand and curl it around the glass, just barely being able to feel the coolness of the water. Progress. I try to tighten my grip as I lift it off the counter.  
Almost instantly, it slides from my hand and crashes to the floor. I curse silently. It was stupid, to think I could do such a simple task. Something a toddler can do. I bend down carefully, trying to gather the larger shards. The door to Steve’s room opens, and he comes running out, alerted by the crash. As though I need a witness to this pathetic attempt.  
“Nat,” He breathes, and I follow his line of sight. Instinctively, I had put down my hand to balance myself as I knelt down. Now, the light wood floors are smeared with blood.  
“Shit,”  
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” I nod, continuing to clean up the glass, “Natasha,”  
“You’re in bare feet.” I point out, but relent, rising from my spot on the floor to sit at the kitchen counter.  
Steve sits next to me, and I flip oven my hand. Now that I am looking at it, I can feel the vague sensation of pain. Steve pulls out pieces of glass with surgical precision, the tweezers comically small in his grasp. After disinfecting it and adding Neosporin, it is wrapped in gauze.  
“You’re good at this,”  
“I got a lot of experience.” I wait for him to explain, “I was a fighter as a kid, not a very good one. Gotta stick up for the little guy,”  
“Weren’t you the little guy?” I joke.  
“There’s always someone smaller,” he shrugs, “And I don’t like bullies,”  
“Thanks,” His finishes pinning the gauze. “I should finish cleaning up the glass,”  
“I can do it,” he insists.  
“I am fully capable of cleaning it up. This was just a little mistake.”  
“Never said you weren’t, I’m just offering to do something nice. Maybe while I clean up the glass, you can actually water the plant Maria got you,”  
“Plants are too much work. At least dogs or kids remind you to feed them,” I fill up the watering can from under the sink and head over to the peace lily while Steve cleans up the glass. The irony of Maria getting me a plant with this name is not lost on me, as I am sure it was not on her.  
That evening, we settle down in our usual booth at the diner, Flora bringing us each a cup of coffee.  
“I’m going to get in my car.” He looks up from his newspaper in surprised.  
“What?”  
“Yes. I have no control over this,” I nod to my useless hand, “But that car is all in my head. I’m the only thing standing in my way.”  
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”  
“I don’t recall asking for your permission, Rogers.”

It is the end of September when I finally do it. The D.C. humidity has finally begun to let up and standing in the open parking lot has become less torturous. Up until now, the closest I had come was opening the car door. Before I can change my mind, I lower myself into the seat. I don’t yet have the courage to turn the car on.  
My heart thumps in my ears, and I can feel the heat starting to encase me. Hotter and hotter. My skin melting to the black leather. I can do this; I take a deep breath.  
The new car smell is far from the smell of burning gasoline. And now that I am inside, I can take a moment to admire the details.  
The amount of thought Tony and Pepper put into this car is astounding. There is dark red stitching on the seats, and everything is top of the line. It is electric with a gas option, and I can only imagine the price tag associated with it. Tesla cars only hit the road a few years ago. I rest my hand on the steering wheel and look closer and cannot hold back the bark of a laugh.  
On the Porsche logo, the horse has been replaced with an hourglass. The trademark infringement could cost Stark a fortune.  
I realize, with surprise, that I have been sitting in the car for nearly ten minutes. And I am okay. After the initial panic, I am fine.  
This does not prove to be the case with driving. It had taken me almost another two weeks to be able to drive the car, and I had a specific destination in mind. There is just enough feeling in my right hand to work the gearshift, though the effort is strenuous. My fine motor skills still need considerable work.  
I drive without music; it is an unnecessary distraction. Perhaps if I hadn’t been listening to music, if I had been more aware of my surroundings, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. My own fault. Sweat pools in my lower back, and I have to pull over four times to compose myself. By the time I reach the triskelion, I am only five minutes early for my meeting with Fury. Or, as Phil would say, right on time.  
I try to hide the sickly pallor my skin had taken on during the drive. I look waxy, ill. Hardly the appearance I want during my pitch. I knock on the door to Fury’s office.  
“Come in, Romanoff.”  
Inside, his office is flooded with warm, early morning light. It is barely six thirty, and Fury appears as though he has been here for hours.  
“What is it that you wanted to meet about? Rogers’s check-in was last week.” Fury looks me over, and I can tell he already knows. But I will play his game. It is what I am good at, what I was made for.  
“I drove here, sir.”  
“I am aware, got the security notification.”  
“I’m getting better,”  
“That I am also aware of, Fran gives me weekly updates regarding your progress.”  
“So, then you know what I am about to ask,” He waits. He is going to make me say it, “Sir, I would like to prepare to go back into the field.”  
“Natasha,” I try to hide my wince. If he is referring to me by my first name in a work setting, it is never a good sign. “It hasn’t been very long.”  
“With all do respect, sir, it has been six months now. And I am ready to begin prep to return to the field.”  
“You have one functional arm and could not complete the obstacle course if I sent you on it right now. I doubt you could even run a 5k.”  
“I said prep,” My patience is wearing thin, “I’m not ready for the field yet, but I think by Christmas. And I can compartmentalize in the field, I promise. There will not be a repeat incident like what occurred at the birthday party.” I keep my head held high, despite the shame burning in me.  
“There are some other harsh realities you have to face here.” Fury stands up and walks to his wall of windows overlooking the Potomac. He can’t look at me. I brace myself for the cruel words to come, unsure what they could be, “You don’t look the part.”  
“Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” He doesn’t turn around.  
“Natasha, you rarely do honeypots anymore, that is true, but for espionage,”  
“So what? What if these scars never heal? You are just going to keep me on a desk for the rest of my life?” I rise from my seat, “Turn around and face me, you coward,” I demand. If he is surprised by my demand, he does not show it in his posture. However, when Fury turns around, I see the words he just said have pained him. They weren’t his orders.  
“Pierce?” I ask, my shoulders sagging.  
“I’m sorry, Natasha. If your scars don’t heal, I will fight to have you go on assassinations and data recon. You will not be behind a desk for the rest of your career. But for now, I need you to sit tight.”  
“And what if they do heal? How are you going to explain away all of this?” I gesture to my face, where the scar starts at my jawline and reaches up to my brow.  
“There is a new surgeon in South Korea, she has some new technology that looks promising. You were an early test subject.”  
“And if they ask her?”  
“She would agree. Her and I have some mutual friends.” His answer is cagey, and very Fury. “You’ve got allies, Romanoff. Just focus on healing, and not pushing yourself too hard.”  
“We will revisit this topic around the holidays,” I reaffirm, holding my stance.  
“I’m proud of you,” His statement throws me off.  
“W-what?”  
“I’m proud of you. You have grown a lot since Barton brought you in years ago. It has been a privilege to watch you become the agent you are today. And I mean in the present tense. No matter what, you are a damn fine agent.”  
“Thank you, sir,” I maintain a professional exterior, but on the inside, I am glowing.  
“No, enjoy your flight to the Barton’s and give them all my best. Enjoy your vacation. You deserve it.”

* * *

I step out of the car at the Barton farm. The gravel crunches underfoot, and I pretend I am okay. They my hands aren’t shaking. That my heart isn’t pounding. That I didn’t have to pull over at on the side of the road and escape from the car for an hour before I could bring myself to get back behind the wheel.  
Clint is waiting on the front porch. He waves when he sees me, a large smile. He jumps off, strolling over to me.  
“Nat, I’ve missed you.”  
“Same,” I grab my back from the trunk and Clint takes it from me. “I’ve got it,”  
“Yeah, but Laura’ll kill me if I’m not a gentleman. You’d think I grew up in the circus or something,”  
“Honey, look who’s here,” Clint drops my bag by the stairs, and I feel an irrational rush of pride. I won’t be staying in the sunroom, but in my room on the second floor.  
“Nat, welcome home,” Laura tentatively reaches out and squeezes my shoulders. Lila blows me a kiss from her highchair and demands to be released from the prison. I look for Cooper and find him hiding behind Laura.  
“Hey Coop,” I slowly crouch down, my knees protesting. I try to smile, and actually do. The skin pulls tight, but both sides of my face twist up.  
“Hi Auntie Nat,” He approaches cautiously, and hovers a foot away, not coming any closer. “How are you feeling?”  
“I’m good, a lot better.” I destroyed his innocence by being here those first few weeks. “I’m really excited for your _Curious George_ party,”  
“Aren’t you going to hug Auntie Nat?” Clint asks, “You’ve been talking for three days about seeing her.”  
“I don’t want to hurt you.” It is like a knife to the heart. His is thinking of when he jumped on me. My screaming, the blood.  
“You won’t, bud. I promise.” He carefully puts his arms around me and lets go. Nothing like the bear hugs I used to receive. For a nearly-five-year-old, he is too serious.  
Lila squirms in Laura’s arms, not satisfied with being out of the highchair. As soon as she is placed on the ground, she stares at me. Her giant doe eyes and full cheeks. She stands up, her chubby legs supporting her, and toddles forward.  
“Clint, get the video camera!” Laura hisses. Clint stumbles over to the hutch and pulls out the camcorder. Lila falls back, but quickly gets back up. One foot in front of the other. I sit down on the ground, relieving my legs of the crouching position. Lila gets closer, and this time falls forward, landing in my arms. An infectious giggle fills the room, and she pulls at one of the strings on my sweatshirt.  
“Hi Lila-bear,” I coo, the nickname flowing naturally.  
“We got it on video!” Clint cheers, high fiving Laura.  
“First steps,” Laura explains, laughing as Clint twirls her in the air. “She has been close all week, Clint’s been following her around with a camera. I guess seeing her Auntie Nat is just the push she needed.” Laura picks up Lila once more and gathers Cooper as well, claiming nap time for them both. I pull a nearby chair closer, leaning on it and pulling myself up. My balance wavers, and Clint is quick to steady me, but offers no more support than necessary.  
“How have you been, Nat? You’re walking really well,”  
“I’m feeling a lot better, really. I met with Fury before I flew out here,” I sit down at the kitchen table, and Clint pulls out two beers.  
“What’d he say?”  
“We’re hoping I’ll be back in the field at some capacity after Christmas,”  
“Nat,” Clint frowns.  
“I thought you’d be happy for me.”  
“You shouldn’t push yourself,”  
“I drove here from the airport.”  
“And got out of that car like you came out of a combat zone. What do the doctor’s think? Hell, how hard did you have to push Fury to even give you this possibility?”  
“Don’t be an ass, Clint.” I stand up from the table, abandoning the brew. “I’m going to see if Laura needs help with the kids.”  
“Nat, wait. That came out wrong.” He pleads, “I just can’t lose you. You mean the world to me. If you go back before you’re ready,”  
“I’ll be ready,”  
“No. I know you will preform well, no matter what. You will be great, the mission will be a success. No civilian casualties, a quick and clean kill.”  
“Then what?”  
“I’m worried you won’t be okay. That it will set you back.”  
“I will be fine. I know my limits,” He crosses his arms. “And if the scars aren’t gone, well I won’t be going back anyway.”  
“What?” Clint raises his eyebrows, “Fury said that?”  
“Pierce’s order. He doesn’t want an ugly Widow.”  
“Don’t say that about yourself,” Clint scolds, closing the fridge and pulling out a Tupperware container filled with some kind of soup, before popping it in the microwave. “You aren’t ugly. Not even close.”  
“You’re not as good of a liar as me.”  
“Maybe you’re just not as good at detecting them as you thought.” He pours the warmed soup into a bowl and places it on the table, tearing off a piece of French bread to go with it, “Now sit down and eat this soup the I laboriously warmed up after Laura spent all day Sunday cooking it.”  
I retake my place at the table, my usual seat when I am at the farm. It has been too long. The last time I was here, I fled without saying goodbye, even after they took care of me.  
“Hey, Tash, stay with me, okay?”  
“I’m sorry I’m a lot of work, more than I’m worth.”  
“And I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” He places a hand over mine, “You’re my best friend, and there is no one else I trust more to have my back. I love you, okay?”  
“I love you too,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have six weeks at the Barton's coming up! Nat will be there for Cooper's birthday through Thanksgiving!  
> Idk if people actually read these notes, but another reason I was so slow posting this week is that I have been working on a possible part 5 and playing around to see if that is something that will work with the series. It would be a reinterpretation of Infinity War and Endgame, along with the aftermath. Is that something you all would be interested in? I am still toying with the idea, so nothing set in stone.  
> God, I am wordy tonight, so sorry! I hope you all finish off the week strong and have a fabulous weekend!  
> -Carly  
> ALSO so much Marvel news this week!! The WandaVision trailer has me 😍😍😍 And Black Widow was delayed again, but I'd rather be able to see it in theaters, and put off seeing Nat on screen for the last time. Thank you again!


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All! Posting on schedule, I know, it is a miracle. I hope you're all doing well and staying safe. As I mentioned in my posting of Kindred, I will be going on hiatus from October 9-19. It is probably going to be one of the busiest weeks of my life lol. I am in a wedding, have doctors appointments, midterms, my birthday 🎉, and I am going on vacation to see my family! Hope you all enjoy this chapter! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated

“Clint, I swear to God,”  
“Oh come on,”  
“I’m going to kill you. Do you know what I have been through in the past few months? And then you pull this shit?”  
“Swear jar!” Cooper pipes up.  
“I’m sorry Nat.”  
“Just so inconsiderate. Did you even think about me for one second?”  
“You’re acting like I killed someone. It isn’t a big deal,” He rolls his eyes. I put down my empty mug, glaring at him. “I’ll brew another pot of coffee. For Christ’s sake.” Clint grumbles.  
Laura breezes in with Lila on her hip, the infant makes grabbing hands at me. She passes her off without thinking, and I hold her in my left arm. She smiles up at me and claps. This is my first time holding her since she was born nearly nine months ago.  
“Lila loves her Auntie Nat,”  
“I love Auntie Nat too,” Cooper demands, slamming down his sippy cup.  
“We all love her and are very happy she is back,” Clint ruffles Cooper’s hair. The scene in front of me is so normal, so lovely.

I avoid Cooper’s birthday party, much to the child’s dismay. It isn’t as though I didn’t help set up, I did. I set up the fairly unsanitary bobbing for banana, rather than apples, and pin the yellow hat on the man. Even stuffing the morbid Curious George piñata. But I couldn’t bring myself to attend the party. Kids are not cruel when they see my scars, just openly _curious._ They ask questions, they stare. And the focus should not be on the freak who lingers in the background, it is Cooper’s day. This also allows me to avoid another candle incident. Clint and Laura don’t pressure me, though their disappointment is obvious, and Cooper’s crying makes my throat tight. I flee the farm just before Laura’s family arrives, hiding out at the local shooting range until well after the party has ended.  
On Cooper’s actual birthday a few days later, I make it up to him when I present a stuffed animal spider. He screams with excitement as though it were real. I had tried to get him a pet tarantula, but Laura quickly nixed it, claiming that the role of ‘spider’ was already filled in this family.  
“What are you going to name him?” I ask.  
“Spider,” Cooper proclaims.  
“No, his name, bud.” Clint laughs.  
“Spider, his name is Spider.”  
The next morning, Clint and I spend time in the barn, practicing with our guns. He has been trying to teach Cooper how to use a bow, but the child had not taken to it. Instead, he preferred to play with his Legos. Though he didn’t say as much, I think Clint was slightly disappointed that his child did not share the same interest or proclivity for the weapon. I spy him online that evening, looking into baby bow and arrows.  
“That says three plus,” I lean over his shoulder. The arrows are felt tipped. A game designed for hand eye coordinate and fine motor skills, not for what Clint has in mind.  
“I bet she’ll be able to use it in a year.” He leans forward on his desk, “I’m not upset that Cooper doesn’t like it,”  
“Just disappointed?”  
“He is just so much like Laura, I thought it was a chance for us to bond.” Clint frowns, “Maybe I’ll learn how to play baseball. I did t-ball in kindergarten, you know, before my life went to hell and my dad lost his job,” I had never heard Clint be so cavalier in mentioning his life before the circus. It is a part of his life we don’t talk about, an unspoken agreement. “I could even coach.”  
“If you want to learn how to play baseball, I support it.” Clint nods, still deep in thought as he goes onto Amazon to order a book called _Baseball for Dummies_. “I have to be a good dad.”  
“You already are. You love your kids.”  
“You don’t get it,” We fall into an awkward silence. We both know I’ll never _get it_. “I was thinking we could all head into town and see a movie tonight, let’s go ask Laura what she wants to see,” He bumps my shoulder lightly on the way out in the form of an apology. I’ll never be a parent. Never understand the stress of thinking that whatever I do isn’t enough. The somehow, loving them isn’t enough. I’ll never understand. But I am Auntie Nat, and that it more than I ever thought I could be. With a pit in my stomach, I follow Clint out of his office and into the kitchen.  
We are nearing the end of October when Cooper comes bounding down the stairs and into the living room, skidding to a stop in front of my chair by the window.  
“Auntie Nat,” I look up from my phone. Steve had just been texting me about how to hook up his newest purchase, a laptop, to the Wi-Fi.  
“What’s up, Coop?” I smile down at the boy.  
“Do you want to go to the pumpkin patch? Dad is working, and Mom has Lila.”  
“I would love to,”  
“Really?” He looks up at me distrustfully, “Dad said not to pressure you,”  
“Well _Dad_ can lay off,” I get up from the chair. “It’s your birthday week, we have to go.” The child grins and races off, yelling to Laura.  
The pumpkin patch turns out to only be a fifteen-minute drive away, much different than my last pumpkin picking experience when the Barton’s still lived in DC and we drove more than an hour.  
As soon as we arrive, I get out of the car, unbuckling Cooper from his booster seat. He looks up at me, reaches for my uninjured hand, and places a wet kiss on it.  
“Kisses make everything better, Auntie Nat.”  
We are in the field for nearly an hour as Cooper carefully inspects each prospective pumpkin. This is followed by a hayride and fresh apple cider doughnuts. I take a picture of his face covered with cinnamon sugar to send to Laura and Clint.  
“And I picked out your costume.” He finishes off his doughnut, wiping his hands on his fleece vest.  
“I get a costume?” I raise my eyebrows, amused.  
“Course,” He stands up from the table, and I pick up our pumpkin to bring back to our car. “We are going as Scooby Doo. Mom is Velma, cause she looks just like her.”  
“I know, weird right?” Cooper nods emphatically.  
“You’re Daphne,”  
“Because of my red hair?”  
“Duh,” He grins, “I’m Fred, Dad is Shaggy, and Lila is Scooby.” I buckle him into his booster seat.  
“You put a lot of thought into this, little man.”  
“It’s Halloween, Auntie Nat. It is the Christmas of holidays. And yesterday, we are going trick or treating.”  
“I think you mean tomorrow, and I am looking forward to it.”  
Halloween comes and goes, with Clint and Cooper consuming a ridiculous amount of candy. The house begins to prep for Thanksgiving, and I find myself wondering how Steve is doing. Maria is flying out for the holiday, and from what I have heard, Steve has been up in New York, visiting his friend’s grandson again, along with spending time at the boxing gym. Fury tried to get him to spar at SHIELD, but the super soldier refused- claiming he is retired. I know Fury will not accept that answer easily. It would be the same as me trying to step away from SHIELD. It is not that Fury is a bad person, far from it. But he does prefer to keep those who could pose a potential threat close. And if I am being frank, that is what Steve and I pose. Tony Stark and that Doctor Banner too.  
“Natasha, how have you not learned any cooking skills? How do you eat?” Laura shakes her head as she looks down at my attempted pie crust.  
“A lot of takeout and delivery. And going out to eat.”  
“I think I should have gotten you cooking classes for Christmas,”  
“What did you get me?” I toss the dough in the trash, it is beyond salvation.  
“You are just as bad as Clint, trying to rush through Thanksgiving and straight to Christmas. You know, I had family come over on the Mayflower.”  
“And her mother never fails to mention it,” Clint leans on the door jam. “Let’s just thank God that they aren’t coming this year,”  
“Clint, that’s my family.”  
“You didn’t disagree with me,” He sheds his boots and jacket. “The chicken officially have heated coop; we no longer have to bring them into the barn at night.” The birds had been acquired last week when Cooper and Clint went to the store for winterizing supplies. Returning with the six birds had been a surprise. The barn cat, whom Cooper aptly named Scratching Larry, had already killed one and Clint left before the kid woke up to replace the bird. The cat is yet to wander near the coop.  
“Maria will be here in a few hours. I think she is taking the quinjet here.” I look over at my best friend.  
“We’re going to miss having you around, Nat. It’s been nice to be together as a family again.”  
“Don’t get all sappy on me, Barton.”  
“Auntie Nat! SpongeBob is on TV,” Cooper calls from the living room where he is watching the parade. Ever since Cooper decided that the princess in the _SpongeBob Movie_ and I have the same voice, he has declared it to be our show.  
“Duty calls. And I’m pretty sure your job will be easier without my help.”  
“I would never say that,” Laura hands me a cup of coffee in the mug she painted for me, as the butterfly mug is currently back in D.C., sitting in my cabinets.  
Maria arrives via quinjet in the early afternoon, bearing pie. Cooper is given a tour of the futuristic jet and insists that Clint takes pictures of him in the cockpit.  
“Stark and Pepper say hi,” Maria sits down on the couch with a cup of hot cider. “They asked if you would be visiting them soon,”  
“Maybe I’ll visit New York in the spring,” I run my finger across the lip of my mug.  
“I know you asked Fury to get back in the field, Natasha.”  
“Yes, and?”  
“It seems a little fast, and I’m saying this as your friend, not your commanding officer.”  
“I’m going a little stir crazy here, Mare. Itching to actually do something.” I set down my cup. “This is the longest I’ve gone without some type of mission since I was a toddler.”  
“That’s seriously messed up, you know that, right? This is a good thing. And You have been doing something. You’ve helped Steve a lot. I’ve noticed how much he has changed in the past few months. We were concerned about him.”  
“You mean Fury and psych.”  
“Just turn it off for a second, Nat. We’re just friends having a conversation.”  
“I’m trying,” I clench and unclench my fists.  
“Did I tell you about my new next-door neighbor?” Maria changes the subject. “We share a wall since it’s a townhome,”

After I finally manage to relax a little, Thanksgiving turns out to be a pleasant affair. Cooper made everyone paper hand turkeys this week in preschool, and Clint shows Maria pictures of us on Halloween. This is also Maria’s first-time meeting Lila, and she is just as smitten as the rest of us. After the kids are put to bed and the dishes are done, we all gather on the floor around the coffee table, playing a lazy game of poker while _Charlie Brown Thanksgiving_ plays in the background. I had missed this, us. This little family I have found. Though a part of me feels that we are not just missing Fury and Coulson, but Steve as well. I hope he has spent the holiday with friends, or at least with Flora at the diner. Perhaps sharing a slice of lemon meringue pie.  
We give our goodbyes Friday afternoon. Cooper tearfully waves goodbye as we board the quinjet. Christmas being three weeks away is still too long between visits, he claims.  
Maria lets me fly the jet back to D.C., and we make it in record time. If my flying terrified her, she gives no indication, nor does she tease.  
“Natasha,” she calls after me as we walk away from the hanger, heading towards our respective modes of transportation, “I just want you to know,” she shoves her hands into the pockets of her SHIELD windbreaker, “I think of you as a friend first, agent second.” The sentiment catches me off guard.  
“Thank you,” I shift my duffel, “I see you as a friend first as well,” I lie. She gives me a smile and jogs off to her car. Despite my fib, I promise to make a conscious effort to do so. We have been friends practically as long as Clint and me, give or take a few hours. It seems only right.  
With my car at the apartment, having taken a taxi to the airport, I am forced to endure the subway once again. Perhaps I should have asked Maria for a ride. As I walk from the stop to the apartment, I shoot Steve a text letting him know I am close and looking forward to going to the diner. I tack on a smiley face emoticon as well, feeling light. The past six weeks at the farm were like a breath of fresh air. I feel better than I have in a long time and bound up the stairs to the third floor of our building. After undoing the series of locks, I step through the threshold.  
“Steve, I’m home,” It is unnecessary to call it out, he undoubtably heard the door being unlocked. I head over to the closet the houses the washing machine and drop my duffel. It is impossible to miss his light, steady footsteps coming my way. “Hey soldier,” I look up from unloading my bag. Steve is staring at me, his mouth agape.  
“Natasha?”  
“Who else?” I cock my head to the side.  
“What happened?”  
“What do you mean?” I laugh, pouring in the detergent, “I told you I was leaving for six weeks.”  
“No, I mean,” The tips of his ears turn bright red, and he gestures vaguely.  
“You’re going to have to tell me, Rogers. I can’t just know what you’re thinking.” I cross my arms, starting to feel uncomfortable.  
“Your face, your scars,” I look in the mirror by the front hall. The scar on my face has faded significantly since I left, now that he points it out, I can see it.  
“I guess you are right. It is hard to notice it when you see them every day,” Even on my hand, the scars are less prominent.  
“How?”  
“Healing is the act or process of curing or restoring to the condition of an organism or one of its parts to which it performs its vital functions normally or properly.” I try to play it off flippantly.  
“It’s a miracle.”  
“I would hardly call it that.” I grimace and can feel the skin still tighten slightly.  
“When we first met,” he stares, “Why aren’t you shocked? Or Thrilled?”   
“It’s no big deal, just some plastic surgery.” I try to steer away from the subject, “Let’s go to the diner early, or maybe we can order takeout.”  
“That’s a lie, so surgery can do that. What happened? I have been running it through my head since you have been gone, and this just confirms it. So much doesn’t add up. What haven’t you told me? What are you?” _What are you_? The question stings. I head into the kitchen, taking out a cup and a teabag. “Natasha,” he snaps. I set down the butterfly mug.  
“You’re not the only super soldier in this apartment, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was kind of at a loss as to how to write that last line, so it may change after I sleep on it, but Steve knows!! How will he react?! Cliffhanger!! Again!!  
> Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!  
> I hope to have the next chapter of Kindred out Saturday night-ish!  
> 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This is likely the last chapter until the 19th or 20th, though I do hope to get some writing done on the plane, so we will see! I really enjoyed the last half of this chapter, hope you do as well!  
> please enjoy this chapter and the long weekend!! :)  
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

  
_What are you?_ I reel at his statement. I made a mistake telling him. It was stupid of me. Trust gets you no where in life. He is going to leave. Perhaps request a transfer. Worse yet, he could reveal my status to SHIELD.  
“Just playing with you, Rogers. Let’s go see Flora early, she probably misses me,”  
“No, you’re not. I knew something wasn’t right,”  
“It was a bad joke, let’s just get something to eat,”  
“Stop lying,” he grits out. “When I first moved in, you could barely walk down a hallway and six weeks later you were doing a mile,”  
“Steve,”  
“And your scars healing, not getting drunk, looking so young. How could I be so blind? All part of Fury’s plan to get me to join SHIELD. So, what, he doped you up after you joined? How long has SHIELD had the serum? How many other volunteers were there?” I open my mouth, “You know what? I don’t want to know. You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”  
He storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. The apartment seems strangely empty without Steve. This is my first time being alone since I left for the farm. And I don’t like the company.  
After finishing up the laundry and putting away the clean clothes that were in my suitcase, I am left without any task. Reluctantly, I realize I should probably call Fury and inform him of the incident, but that doesn’t sit right. Instead, I change into jeans and my favorite leather jacket and step out into the cool evening air.  
Flora greets me with a large smile and a cup of coffee on the house. Her grandmotherly demeanor soothes my anxiety, and I settle into the booth with my book. She brings over a plate of pancakes, claiming there is nothing that they can’t fix.  
Finally, at one o’clock, a half hour after the boxing gym closes, the bell above the door of the diner chimes. Flora goes behind the counter and puts in the order for one of Steve’s usuals, she has a knack for knowing which he wants on different evenings.  
He slides into his side of the booth, looking dour. His hair is wet, still dripping from a hasty shower, and one of his hands is wrapped in gauze.  
“Hello,” I take a sip of my coffee and turn the page of my book, “Feeling better?”  
“You have to understand why I would be upset,”  
“Mhm,” I don’t take my eyes off the page.  
“It isn’t that you have the serum, it is that it is out there for anyone to take. I can’t believe Fury would be so reckless. Does your friend Clint have it? How many volunteers were there?”  
“No volunteers. I was injected as a toddler against my will.” There is a sharp intake of breath and I close the book, pushing it off to the side. His eyes are so wide, there is almost more white than blue.  
“So, if you were injected as a toddler, the Russians have it,”  
“Had. And no, it is a facsimile. A knockoff and not a very good one. So, no need to get your tights in a twist.”   
“Had?”  
“I destroyed the work so they couldn’t keep creating things like me,”  
“Why?”  
“Same reason why you got so upset and broke your own hand. It is reckless for it to be out in the world. My sister and I were the last ones in our program to survive. We killed everyone else and burned any shred of evidence.”  
“You have a sister?”  
“Had. She died a few years ago. Actually, your room used to be hers.”  
“Natasha, I’m so sorry.”  
“And if you’re wondering how committed I am to making sure that serum doesn’t get into anyone’s hands, she was getting kidnapped and there was no extraction. I was given two options.”  
“You killed her yourself.” He looks green.  
“There are side effects to this imitation serum that gave me no choice. She was my only family in the world, so do not think I took the decision lightly. It was an agreement we had.”  
“When you say side effects,”  
“It isn’t important,” I lean back against the seat, the message is clear. He is not privy to the side effects. The curse that comes with being an agent of the Red Room. Everything comes at a cost. To be a super soldier, really a super assassin, my humanity was slaughtered. Flora brings by a plate of shepherd’s pie.  
“Who knows about you?”  
“You, Maria, Fury, Clint, Coulson, and Dr. Fine.” And Laura.  
“So I am one of six people in the world to know that there is another super soldier?” Technically, there are three of us. My pelvis throbs dully with the thought.  
“Yes,”  
“Where were you raised that they would do that to a toddler?”  
“It was called the Red Room. The Howling Commandos actually tried to dismantle it back in the fifties, all they did was get better at hiding, but a valiant effort.” Steve stays quiet, waiting for me to continue, his fork hangs in the air, likely surprised by the mention of his old comrades. “They would kidnap toddlers, or buy them, and train them, us, as assassins. They start killing us off at five and we start killing each other before we turn ten.”  
“You first killed someone,”  
“At nine,” I finish. Steve pushes away his plate, half finished. “Clint was sent to kill me. He made a different call.”  
“Why was he sent to kill you?” Steve’s muscles have tensed up, and he is leaning away from me. Might at well deal the death blow to our friendship.  
“I was the deadliest person in the world.”  
I am amazed by his attempt to hide his reaction. It is quite good, and were I not me, I probably would have thought he were indifferent regarding my newly revealed status, because in turn, it also reveals what I am for SHIELD. Not a regular agent by any means.  
“Okay,” He nods and brings the plate back towards himself, quickly finishing off the pie, “Okay.”  
“If you want to move out, I understand.”  
“I’m not moving out.”   
“You don’t have to stay out of some weird sense of commitment or duty. Fury threw us together.”  
“It’s not like I’m one of your marks, right?” I wish he hadn’t said mark. He should have said target. Marks, marks are something else.  
“No, you are not.”  
“Then I don’t have to worry about you killing me,”  
“Unless you use up all the hot water, you are safe,” Steve hesitates in his response, unsure if I am kidding or serious, “Roger, I have no plans to kill you presently, nor do I anticipate having them in the future.”  
Around two o’clock we walk down the street, back towards our apartment. The temperature has dropped a few more degrees, bringing the comfortable chill to something bordering on freezing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steve clenching his jaw, his pace picking up the longer we are outside.  
“You okay?”  
“It’s cold,” I am tempted to make a joke about being in Russia in the winter, but then I recall how I found him months ago. Frozen solid in the arctic.  
“Do you remember it?”  
“Not all of it. At first it was cold, freezing. Then I got warm and tired, and just fell asleep. I had accepted that it was my time and didn’t panic. Peggy, she stayed on the radio with me until it was over,” He glances over at me, “Do you remember,”  
“Every single moment. I was awake for all of it.”  
Back at the apartment, Steve runs the shower to his bathroom, and soon the entire space is filled with steam. I throw the quilt at the end of his bed into the dryer and when the water turns off, I lay it across the comforter. A sliver of guilt escapes, as I think of how I have kept the apartment practically icy all summer. He must have been feeling tortured.  
In the morning, step into the kitchen, Steve has already left. There is a familiar bottle of vodka on the counter, partially drunk. It is not mine, and most definitely not Steve’s. On the lip of the bottle is red lipstick. Next to the bottle is a _Lion King_ playbook. I remember the night well.  
It was during her two week stay with me. This was the second bottle, and both of us were considerably drunk. We had sat on the floor, doing each other’s makeup, and drinking straight from the bottle. Then she began to sing songs from them musical, somehow procuring the leaflet out of thin air, and signing the front with Sharpie after her performance.  
“That will be worth money someday, Tasha,” She promises. She kissed it too. The mark like a kiss goodbye. This bottle, the playbook, and the slippers are all that remain in this world of Yelena Belova.  
I gather the items and head into my bedroom. The bench at the end of my bed holds the slipper, still wrapped carefully in tissue paper, never broken in. They were meant to be used, but after she died, I could not bring myself to break them in. Instead, I eye the pair I had broken in, and am yet to dance in. I place the items in the chest with the slipper, lying atop a blanket knitted by Laura and all my get-well cards from Cooper.  
I am fairly certain Yelena hated ballet. She was a beautiful dancer, but her moves were always too sharp, a bit like her. My heart strings tug. But she loved to watch me dance. When we were young, before my first kill, she would ask me to dance for her in the courtyard during our free hour.  
The slippers slide on easily, molded to my feet. They have been beaten and cracked to perfection. In my stack of CDs is the Black Swan.  
I dance. Thirty-two fouettés en tournant. I fall out of the stance before I reach fifteen. I go again, and again. At nine, I could do this with glass in my shoes. I start the song from the beginning. Eighteen. Again. Twenty-two. Again. Twelve.  
I half expect a cane to strike the back of my knees, or for one of my fingers to be broken. I rarely made mistakes in ballet, and only once. I was perfection. I was marble. You can only break the breakable ones.  
Again.  
My muscles scream and my lungs fight for air. The numbers get worse each time as I wear myself out. I close my eyes and can see the studio. A piano player in the corner. The large windows. Parque floors. I will not fail.  
Thirty-two fouettés en tournant. The song ends and my knees give out. I hit the hardwood floors with a dull thud. Like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Everything is loose and my mind is clear. My heart is light. And I cry. Silent tears track down my cheeks, thick and heavy. I cry for the girls I killed. I cry for Yelena. For me. I cry for all of those who were victims of the Red Room.  
A fabric drapes over my shoulders. I look up a surprise and see Steve, stepping back. He had given me one of his zip-up sweatshirts, placing it like a shawl. Perhaps more like a shroud. He sits beside me, leaning back against the chest. It is a hope chest, ironically. An antique I found with Laura one day as we shopped on Virginia Beach. My purse from the night Clint saved me is in there too, right beside a pack of plastic glow in the dark stars.  
An unspoken understanding forms in the silence. We are not alone in our misery, in our desiderium. We are lost together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked this chapter! Next one is Christmas, which is actually one of the first scenes I planned out when Volition was just an idea.  
> Additionally, I have created a Tumblr for the series!! The link is below! I have no clue how to use Tumblr but you are welcome to reach out to me on there for questions, requests, and everything in between!  
> https://natandwandaseries.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and sticking with this story, I still get nearly giddy every time I see I got a new comment, they are the reason this series has become what it is. Thank you!!!


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Get ready for the Christmas spirit! I have been so tempted to decorate for Christmas, but I am holding off until Sunday (Nov 1st), it has been torture to wait. My friends and family joke that it is the only time of year that I could be considered cheerful lol  
> Did you all see Scarlett Johansson got married today? And she’s staring in a TV show? Anywho ignore my fangirling...  
> I hope you all enjoy and are having a great week!  
> I also recomend you check out the series' Tumblr page where I post sneak peaks, miscellaneous content, and if I can find them, deleted scenes! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/natandwandaseries 
> 
> And as always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

I begin to pack my bag for the trip out to Iowa. The presents left before me, nearly a week ago. According to Laura, they had already arrived, and it took a great deal of effort to keep Cooper, and Clint, away from the boxes. It is with determination and some colorful language, that I am able to fit both my snow boots and parka into the bag. A snowstorm is set to arrive on Christmas morning, and Cooper informed me that they have an amazing sledding hill that I am required to experience.  
I step out into the living room where Steve is tying a bow around a colorful paper package. He is on the floor in front of our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, as it is just as sad and scraggly as the one in the holiday special. Last weekend, during our hunt for a tree, Steve had insisted that we get this one, as no one else would buy it. So, the shabby fir has littered pine needles all over the hardwood floor and can barely hold an ornament, but Steve has shoved many gifts under the tree, and marvels at it as though it is the one in Rockefeller Center.  
“So, we’ll exchange gifts when you get back?” Steve glances up from his wrapping job. The original _Miracle on 34 th Street_ plays in the background, and it is a little sad to think that even this movie, which is old to everyone else in the world, is new to him.  
“Sounds like a plan,” I lie. My gift will be arriving around ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Steve places the latest box under the tree. I have no clue who all those presents could be for, as I can count on one hand the number of people he knows. “Merry Christmas, Nat.”  
“And a happy New Year,” I slip out of the apartment, excited to see the look on Cooper’s face when he opens up the toddler computer I bought him on Christmas morning.  
This does not happen.

I slam the door to the apartment, dropping my duffel bag. Steve comes running in from his bedroom, his shirt halfway buttoned.  
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a flight to see Clint?”  
“Cancelled.” I begin to dig through the kitchen cabinets for a bottle of the good vodka.  
“Can’t you get the next flight out?”  
“All flights are cancelled. There is a major blizzard in the Midwest, it came early.” I finally find the bottle hidden behind a box of cereal and grab my largest coffee mug.  
“I’m sorry,”  
“Yep,” I take a sip. Alcohol around the holidays, now that’s the Christmas spirit.  
“Natasha, I’m so sorry.”  
“Yes, well, it isn’t as though celebrating Christmas is a long-standing tradition, despite my name.”  
“What?”  
“My name means Christmas Day. And we didn’t celebrate Christmas in the Red Room.”  
“You didn’t have Christmas?”  
“Steve, they poisoned toddlers and taught them to kill people. Does that sound like people who celebrate jolly old Saint Nick?” I had however, celebrated Saint Nick this year by hacking SHIELD and replacing Nick Fury’s ID and profile photo with one of him that I edited with a Santa beard and hat. It was worth the scolding just from Clint’s reaction over the phone.  
“I’m sorry,”  
“Hardly the worst part of my childhood, don’t worry about it,” I head into my room closing the door behind me. I take comfort in Tolstoy, curling up in my bed with my mug of vodka.  
A few hours later, there is a knock at my door. I rise from my nest, too sober after drinking the alcohol at a snail’s pace. I open the door and Steve is standing before me in a terribly knotted tie.  
“What happened?”  
“I don’t know how to tie a tie,” Steve admits in defeat, “Please tell me,”  
“Of course I do,” I think of the last time I tied one, for Clint at his wedding. “You getting all dressed up for Flora?” I look over at the clock, nearly eleven o’clock.  
“Midnight Mass,” Steve extends his neck and I loop around the tie, “Do you want to come?”  
“I’m not sure that is a good idea,”  
“I would like it if you could join me,” he admits, looking embarrassed, “I’d rather not go alone.” I tighten the silk.  
“In that case, let me get changed,” I dig through my closet, shoving aside leather jackets and other old mission outfits until I come across the dress I am looking for. It is a black sheathe dress I wore back when I worked for Pepper. I slide on a pair of heels and hope it is dark enough in the church that my still healing scars will not be on display.  
Steve is waiting at the counter, washing a dish and turns when he hears me come out. He grins.  
“What is it weird to see me out of sweats?”  
“You look nice,” He protests.  
“You clean up well yourself, Rogers.” I go over to the closet and pull out my peacoat, tossing Steve one of his jackets.  
“How do you move so fast in heels?”  
“Bet you never thought you’d say that,” I toss a smile over my shoulder.  
“How’d you know what church we’d be going to?” I spy the cathedral’s spire poking out behind a row of townhomes.  
“It is the closest Catholic church to the apartment.”  
Children play a game of tag by the front steps while parents mill about, chatting in the chilly night, likely warmed by eggnog drunk before leaving their homes.   
The slate steps have been salted and two alter boys stand by the doors, propping them open and handing out pamphlets for tonight’s service.  
I half expect to burst into flames upon entry into the hallowed building. Instead, all remains still, and I follow Steve to a pew in the back. The church is already filled with practicing Catholics, despite those lingering outside. Little girls wear Christmas dresses, and boys small suits. Wives sport their newest jewelry, likely opened just before leaving the house, while the husbands seem to be thinking about all the gifts they still have to put together by morning.  
“I have never been inside one before,” I admit, looking over at Steve, who is adjusting his tie for the umpteenth time, despite my perfect knot.  
“You’ve never been in a church?”  
“It isn’t a place I belong,” He is quiet for a moment.  
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t made confession in eighty years.”  
“I am fairly certain if I were to try and confess my sins, the priest would have a heart attack,” I look out at the crowd. “I killed one, once. It was in Russia when I was fourteen,” The super soldier stiffens beside me.  
“I think that is different, you were a kid and being held captive.” I hum noncommittally, paging through the Bible that had been wedged into the back of the seat in front of me.  
“It is nice that they serve wine and crackers at this thing,” I look up, smirking.  
“You can’t, you haven’t had your First Communion,” Steve gapes, aghast.  
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I flip through the pamphlet and see there is will be a nativity play performed by the children. I think of Cooper and Lila, getting ready for Santa Claus while Clint and Laura pick out a Christmas movie for after the kids go to bed. Our traditional holiday poker game will not occur this year. “I’m sorry if I have come off as flippant. Thank you for inviting me.”  
“I’m glad you could come.”  
The priest begins to speak at the altar, his voice echoing into the space. The last stragglers file into nearby pews, joining us in the back. Then I see snaking into the air. It slithers up towards the rafters and begins to fill cavernous room. It constricts my throat, tighter and tighter. I grip the wooden seats so hard that I feel the wood crack. A hand grabs my arm and I whip towards it, a snarl on my lips and ready to fight. But it is Steve, and he pulls me from of the pew and out the door.  
I collapse onto the steps, gasping for air. My lungs shutter with each breath and my throat burns. Something is rubbing my back. I jump away, unnerved by the contact.  
“Nat,” Steve has both hands out in front of him, and I realize I pulled a knife from my thigh, I quickly slide it back into place.  
“I was fine, you shouldn’t have done that. I was going to be fine. This is your night. It was your plans I intruded on and I now they are ruined because,”  
“Let’s go to the diner,” he cuts me off, “My treat, come on.”  
The biting air clears my head and I begin to hate myself. It was stupid. There was no fire, they were burning incense.  
Our booth is empty, as is the rest of the diner. Flora brings by two slices of gingerbread cake, both with a dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel.  
“This was my first time going to Midnight Mass since I was a kid,” Steve speaks up.  
“I’m sorry, I,”  
“The last time I went was with my ma when I was nine. They were burning that incense and it caused me to have an asthma attack. Disrupted the whole service with my coughing. We had to leave, and it was snowing so hard outside that we could barely see ten feet in front of us on the walk home. Bucky was already there waiting for us when we got to the back porch, he has slipped out the side door when he saw us leaving. Pretty sure he got a whoopin’ from his pa after for leaving the service early, but he wanted to make sure I was alright. We had orange slices and waited till the clock struck midnight.” Steve smiles fondly at the memory.  
“Clint got me my favorite gun for my first Christmas,” I take a bite of the sticky cake.  
“Speaking of weapons,”  
“I am sorry I pulled a knife on you,”  
“Do you always have them on you?”  
“At least a few. Seven at the moment.” Steve blanches. “I need to be able to protect myself and the people around me.” I struggle to grab the mug of coffee until finally my grip feels tight enough to raise the cup to my lips.  
The minute hand on the clock behind the cash register ticks, striking midnight, and an idea forms in my head.  
“I’ll be right back.” I walk over to the serving counter where Lou, the cook, is watching a Christmas movie on a small screen hanging above the stove. After exchanging pleasantries, I return to the table with the surprise behind my back. Steve looks at me apprehensively, likely producing a list of the possible surprises. Instead, a present a plate of orange slices. A smile both melancholic and joyful graces his face. We wish Flora a happy holiday, and Lou as well, before heading out into the crisp night.  
It is almost unbelievable that six months ago, the walk from the diner to the apartment was a struggle. Now, I walk steadily beside Steve, my steps barely restricted by the scars around my knees. Steve undoes the series of locks on the apartment door and we step inside. I put on a record while he plugs in the tree. Bing Crosby’s Christmas album filters through the apartment and I head into the living room to see almost all the presents that had been under the tree are gone. I turn to Steve, confused.  
“Who were all those for?”  
“I got one for Flora, Gianni, the guy who owns the art supplies shop and his dog Degas, Raphael- he delivers our food from across the street,”  
“You got all those people presents?”  
“Well, I have never had this much money before, it seemed wrong to not give everyone a present,”  
“You are kind of the worst, anyone ever tell you that?” I laugh, “Of course, I mean that you are extremely thoughtful and kind.”  
“We could exchange gifts now,” he offers.  
“Sorry, my present won’t be arriving until ten o’clock. You’ll have to wait a little longer.” I settle onto the couch and kick off my heels.  
“What is it?”  
“As if I’d tell you,” I look at the tree we decorated. I had spent a good hour making sure the garland was equally spaced. Steve settles down beside me, and I put on another Christmas movie, as the night slips into morning.  
I wake to find myself still on the couch and in my dress. A blanket had been draped across me, while the tree had been turned off, as had the TV. The apartment is filled with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, and I hear sizzling coming from the kitchen. I walk in to find Steve standing over the stove, his jaw tightened in concentration.  
“What are you making?” He jumps, surprised. I pad over to the coffee maker and breathe in the coffee grounds.  
“French toast,”  
“Sounds delicious,” I place the carafe under the brewer and head into my bedroom, emerging a moment later in leggings and one of his t-shirts.  
“Okay, let’s open presents,” Steve declares after breakfast as it begins to near ten o’clock. I follow him over to the tree where he produces a package small enough to bit cupped in my hands, “Ma’am,” he jokes as I take the gift.  
I unwrap the present and open the box. Inside is a delicate black and red Faberge egg. I pick it up notice the knob at the bottom. When I twist, the box opens up to reveal a dancer with red hair in a black tutu dancing to an instrumental _Yesterday_ by the Beatles. I watch as the tiny dancer twirls around the minute stage, and when the song ends, the egg clicks shut. I wind it up again. And again, watching the little red headed ballerina.  
“You like it?” Steve asks nervously. I look up and hold back tears that threaten to pool over.  
“It is lovely, I don’t know what to say,”  
“I found a woman in Russia online who makes them. It was a bit of a rush order, but she got it done. It arrived yesterday,”  
“Was that a pun?” I tease, resting the treasure back in its box. “I cannot thank you enough,” I stare down at the little box, “It is magical, wonderful,” Steve smiles at me and before we can say anything further, my cell phone buzzes. “Your present has arrived,” I rise from the floor and put on my slippers, and Steve comes behind me, bewildered as to what could be delivered out Christmas morning, and require us to go outside. “Wait here,” I command, shutting the door outside behind me. After signing the delivery paperwork, call to him to let him know he can come out. The door opens and clicks shut, the wreath thwapping against the wood.  
“Natasha,” He stares at the bike.  
“Is it okay? I tried to get your original, but it never made it out of Germany, the one in the Smithsonian is a recreation. It is top of the line, still in R&D, I pulled some strings but,” Harley-Davidson Street 750 seems to shine under the morning sun.  
“You bought me a motorcycle,” he stares at it.  
“You showed interest once, that day we went clothes shopping at the mall,”  
“You remembered that?”  
“Of course,” I tilt my head.  
“You bought me a motorcycle, and all I got you was a music box,”  
“Don’t do that,” I huff. “Well, are you going to go for a spin?” I cross my arms, waiting. I decline his offer to join, and feel a small smile playing on my lips as Steve pulls back into the lot, looking more alive than I have ever seen him.  
That afternoon, I FaceTime the kids, though Lila does not seem to understand, while Cooper presses his face too close to the screen. Maria comes over for dinner, happy to avoid her parents pestering her about a boyfriend, and Fury does as well. At the end of the night, I settle into my bed feeling content, as though things were finally going to be okay, that I was going to be okay. What I didn’t know was that in three months’ time, the entire world would change forever.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Steve's story about the asthma attack at Midnight Mass was based off my own experience when I was 14 and my family wanted to 'try something new' on Christmas. Needless to say, we did not go back lol  
> Unfortunately, posting may slow down more as I am having some health issues, so if I disappear for a week or so, I promise I have not abandoned the series!  
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you have a wonderful rest of you week!


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Hope you are doing well and staying safe and healthy! 
> 
> Please let me know if you are reading, even if it is just a quick hello or even an emoji! I would like to continue Volition through Age of Ultron, but I would like to get an idea of how much interest there is in this fic, thank you!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter as we are finally seeing Nat again as she was before the fire (and hanging with her favorite boys)

“Romanoff, I am sorry,”  
“No, you’re not.” I glare at Fury.  
“Sometimes I miss the days when you respected me,” I flinch at the rebuke. “I didn’t mean that Natasha. You’ve grown a lot since we have met, in a good way.”  
“Then please, let me back in the field.”  
“This is a long term assignment, and truthfully, I don’t think you are ready, and neither does Fran.”  
“What does Fran know?”  
“She has a doctorate in physiotherapy and occupational therapy. She also had Doctor Fine sign off on her recommendation. You have another two months.”  
“Fury, that is almost a year out of the field. And who is going to go instead? You said I could have this,”  
“If you passed the physical assessment, which you did not. And you weren’t even supposed to have access to these files, they were above your clearance. That meeting was originally supposed to be about your punishment, not you possibly going.” He puts his hands on the desk. “Romanoff, you are not going on this assignment, and that is the final word I have to say about it.”  
“Then who is going?”  
“Fuck, he’ll probably tell you anyway since the two of you can’t seem to ever follow one God damn line of protocol. Barton has taken the assignment.”  
“I always follow protocol,”  
“Just not when it comes to him, I know.” Fury stands up, “Go home, maybe go on a vacation. Rogers could use one too,”  
“Neither of us are really the vacationing type, sir.”  
“Birds of feather,” Fury grumbles. “Now go, I have work to do.” I head towards the door, “For what it’s worth, Romanoff, if it was up to me, I’d have let you back in the field,”  
I mark to my office, clicking the door shut behind me. The phone rings four times before finally being picked up.  
“Nat? Are you okay?”  
“Am I okay?”  
“Shit, what happened?” The grogginess in Clint’s voice is instantly gone.  
“Why are you sleeping? Don’t you have a farm?”  
“It’s Sunday and Laura and I were up late last night,” he begins, “Wait, no. Why are you calling me at six o’clock in the morning?”  
“It is seven here,” I snap, “And what were you thinking?”  
“About sleeping,”  
“No, I mean about you agreeing to a two month mission,”  
“I will get every other weekend home, it is domestic. How did you even know about it? Not to mention it is an easy gig, I am standing guard for some scientists in a giant cave.”  
“Fury wouldn’t let me take it from you, I tried,”  
“Natasha,” There is some grumbling on his side from Laura, and I hear the shifting springs of a mattress and Clint heading down the stairs. “Your first mission back cannot be a two-month assignment. You’ll be lucky if its even an overnight.”  
“As soon as I am cleared, I am taking this from you.”  
“I’m a grown man, I can make my own decisions.” I pace back and forth in my office, behind my desk, there is a strip of carpet that has become threadbare. “Laura likes a break from me sometimes, and I haven’t had a long mission in over a year.” I can see him in my head, scooping out coffee grounds and pouring them into their ancient Mr. Coffee. His mug, likely the one Laura painted, sitting, and waiting for the drip.  
“You’re not going to get to painting the barn today,” I add quietly.  
“It is creepy how you do that,”  
“Because I know you. I know you are standing at the kitchen window, looking out back. Like how I know you are drinking from your purple mug from Laura. It is also how I know you are wearing the plaid slippers and not the suede ones because you probably left the suede ones by the TV last night when you and Laura went to bed.” I unclench my fist, which had unconsciously tightened. “It is also how I know you don’t want to leave your family for this long.”  
“Come visit us. I miss you; we all miss you. We can celebrate Defection Day early.”   
“Only if you promise to let me take this mission from you when I can.”  
“If that’s what it takes for me to see my best friend.”  
I leave the Triskelion, still irritated with Fury, Clint, my doctors, and the car that is driving so slow in front of me. It is not right. I am fine now. I’m driving in a car, my right hand is at eighty percent, and I’ve got my mile down to four minutes and thirty seconds- nearly what it was at before any of this had happened. But they still won’t let me work. I catch a glance of my face in the rearview mirror and flip it up. I’m not looking at that. Not today. Though it is undoubtably the reason why they aren’t having me go on any missions. What good is an ugly honeypot?  
I pull up to the apartment and park my car, when I walk past Steve’s bike, I can feel the heat radiating off of it. He must have finally come back. Steve had stated on our way back to the apartment last night that he needed to go off to clear his head. Ever the gentleman, he walked me to the door first. That was at two o’clock this morning, and it is now nearly eight.  
I undo the six locks and step inside. Before going to knock on Steve’s door, I grab one of the first aid kits from the bathroom. There is a beat of hesitation after my knock.  
“Come in.” Inside, Steve is sitting on his bed, bruised and a little bloody. He look at the first aid kit in my hand in then to me. “How’d you know?”  
“Couldn’t think of anything good that you’d be doing, figured no matter what, this would be needed,” I hold up the plastic white box, the red cross blazoned across.  
I tape up the split open skin under his eye and clean his knuckles. The bag of frozen peas that he had found is beginning to melt onto his bed.  
“So, what happened?”  
“I didn’t think you’d be home,” he replies gruffly, shifting.  
“Do you want me to bind your ribs?”  
“How did you know?”  
“You’re way too easy to read.” I tear away his bloodied white t-shirt and begin to wrap his chest. “So, why did you do it?”  
“Do what?”  
“You’re a bad liar, Rogers. And even worse at playing dumb. You’re clueless too much of the time for me not to notice when you’re faking.”  
“Thanks,” he scoffs, “but I don’t know what you are talking about,” He tries again, though with far less conviction.  
“You were upset last night. You needed something to hurt more? Hirt more than the pain you’re feeling inside. Physical pain, you can see the cause. It’s easier to fix. To watch it mend.” He doesn’t respond, telling me I got it right. “Come on,” I pull him up off the bed.  
“I’ve got broken ribs.”  
“They are just cracked. You’re fine. Let’s go.” I lead him towards the window and up the fire escape to the roof.  
“Throwing knives is your thing, Natasha. I don’t want,” I wave him off, silencing him, as I dig through my container of weapons. Finally, I find what I am looking for. A nub of chalk I use to mark my distance. “What are you doing?”  
“You know, I thought old people were supposed to be more patient.” I finish drawing the large circle and step back. It will do. “Alright, step into the ring.”  
“Ring?”  
“Yes. You can’t go around beating up guys who are robbing liquor stores or wherever you got those injuries. That’s being a vigilante, and it will get you arrested.”  
“Ironman does it,”  
“Ironman has a few billion dollars and half of the lawyers in America on his payroll. Do you?”  
“But you’re a lot smaller than me, and still recovering,” He towers at least a foot above me, but I know I could easily hold my own.  
“I’m all doped up to. Or are you just scared to lose a fight to a girl,”  
“It isn’t because you are a woman,” he argues.  
“Then prove it,” I shove him, and he stumbles back.  
“Natasha,” I shove him again, close to the edge of the roof.  
“Come on, you’ve wanted to fight someone since you came out of the ice. Now is your chance, take a swing, Captain.” I dance on the balls of my feet, taunting him.  
He takes a half-hearted swing. I duck it easily.  
“Clint has a better right hook, and he doesn’t even box.” He goes again, this time with more gusto. I feel his skin graze the edge of my face, barely touching. Adrenaline fills every inch of my body and it feels like I am finally alive for the first time in months.  
Steve falls into the patterns of a fight and we both get lost in the movements. He charges me and I slip between his legs. Where he is stronger, I am faster. It is like a perfect balance. Sweat is pouring down my back and I have split my cheek, while a large bruise has begun to form on Steve’s arm. It is only a crack of thunder overhead that gives us pause. Neither of us move, both wanting to continue, until buckets of cold rain begin to pour down, freezing really, as the late January air meets a warm front from the south. Inside, I put on a pot of coffee while he gathers towels from the bathroom.  
“You didn’t fight dirty,”  
“What?”  
“My right side. You know it is weaker right now. You could have gone for it and called it a day.”  
“That isn’t a good way to fight.”  
“It’s a good way not to die, though.” I finish towel drying my hair and hand him a mug of coffee. After changing into dry clothes, we both settle down on the couch, daytime TV droning on mindlessly in front of us.  
“You could have gone for my ribs.” He says quietly, as the TV lulls for a moment. Neither of us say anything more.

I arrive at Clint’s just in time for Lila’s first birthday. The toddler runs around after her older brother. Each time she falls, she pulls herself back up. I sit down beside Laura at the kitchen table, while she talks about this mom and her son Henry that is in her Mommy & Me class.  
“Clint is convinced though that Lila is a prodigy when it comes to archery.”  
“She is, great hand eye coordinate for her age. I swear, she is going to be Little Hawkeye someday.”  
“First let’s get her potty trained, then you can plan about her becoming a special agent or a superhero or whatever.” Laura laughs. Cooper runs into the room, Lila not far behind.  
“Auntie Nat, remember we had a deal about sledding,”  
“Sorry Coop, there is no snow.” I look outside at the frozen ground, unfortunately, not a snowflake in sight. “What if, instead, we build a blanket fort?” His eyes go large, like saucers.  
“Be gentle with Auntie Nat,” Clint scolds when Cooper pulls me out of the chair.  
“Clint, I’m fine,” I don’t get a chance to say more as we head into the living room to begin construction.  
That evening, as Laura and Clint put the children to bed, I begin to deconstruct the space, but pause, instead crawling inside. I look up at the makeshift ceiling of the fort. Cooper had wanted to use his old space sheets, so looking up, I see stars.  
“Can I come in?” I glance over at the entrance.  
“Only if you the password,” I shrug.  
“Is it spider?”  
“Your son has an obsession,” Clint crawls forward sitting down beside me, our back against the base of the couch. “Do you ever wonder if you would have done things like this when you were a kid? Build forts, or a tree house.”  
“I built a fort in my attic as a kid, I could see the driveway perfectly. Barney used to call it my hawk’s nest because it gave me a bird’s-eye view. I was always the first to know if my dad was coming home.” He adds nothing else, and we exist together for a while. “You’re doing really well, Nat.”  
“I feel good,” I admit. “Like I am me, like I am Natasha.”  
“You’ve never stopped being Natasha,”  
“You know what I mean.” I look over at him, in the dark, we can barely see each other’s faces. “I’ve missed you.”  
“Not at much as I’ve missed you.” He presses his shoulder against mine. “I know this is a safe mission, easy, just guarding some scientists, but if anything happens,”  
“I’ll keep them safe, I promise.”  
“I love you, Nat.”  
“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there are two chapters left of Volition if it ends with Nat finding out about Clint, maybe one. So please let me know!  
> Thank you for reading and know I appreciate every single one of you! This series has been going on for 10 months now, and I appreciate you all for sticking with me and have enjoyed getting to know you through your comments. Enjoy your Friday!! I will (hopefully) have the next chapter of Kindred out Saturday!


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Hope you are having a wonderful (short!!) week!   
> This was originally supposed to be the last chapter of Volition, but thanks to the outpouring of support i received last chapter, I have decided to continue through Age of Ultron! There is so many other events for Nat that we need to explore (including her introduction to our Little Witch!!!)   
> Thank you all for reading! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated! :)

“Do you want to come?” I ask, tying my sneakers. Steve looks up from his newspaper, folding it. “Their sparring facilities are much better than our roof.”   
“I’m okay. Don’t want to give Fury the wrong idea.”   
“And what would that be?”   
“That I’m interested in joining SHIELD or whatever role he has for me.”   
“Oh,” I pull on my windbreaker. He said it so dismissively, like it is something bad, that I have signed away my life. It had been part of my assignment to recruit him, though I had not fulfilled that duty as well as I had others. When Fury asked, I told him Steve wasn’t interested, not that I had never pressured the super soldier into signing up.   
“Not that it isn’t good for you,” he rushes to explain, “And good luck today, finding out whether or not you’re allowed back in the field.”   
“Thanks.” I leave the apartment, heading down the step and out to my car. It is fine. I still have Clint as a partner, so long as I ignore the fact that he is nearing the usual retirement age for the field, for those who survive that long. He will switch to an instructor soon, in the next few years, or to only a few missions a year. Which is what he should do, he has a family to worry about. If Steve doesn’t want to join, that is fine. I worked alone for most of my life. It is what I was made for.   
I arrive at SHIELD and catch my reflection in the glass elevator. The scars on my face are gone now. It is likely the reason I wasn’t cleared before, no one wants to bed an ugly girl. The only visible sign that anything happened to me, is the still-fading scar on my outer right thigh, so high up that even the shortest miniskirt wouldn’t reveal it.   
My mile is back down to its previous number, and my hand function is at 95%, and will likely be normal again in a few short weeks. I step out of the elevator.   
“Romanoff, here I thought Fury shipped you off to a nursing home.”   
“And I thought someone would have killed you by now,” I snap. I had managed to avoid him for the past year and deleted any security footage that I was one. Careful would be an understatement.   
“So, the experimental plastic surgeon from Korea, wasn’t a rumor,” Rumlow looks me up and down. “You must be here for a mission, not that you’re worth much anymore. I mean, what even is your purpose?” he sneers. My purpose is to make sure men like him never come into power.   
"Your guess is as good as mine, Brock. Perhaps you can bring up your concerns to Fury at our next team meeting, as unfortunately for us both, I am likely back on Strike Team Delta."   
"It is a priveledge to be on my team, you should be honored."   
"That is hardly the word I would use. Have a great day, Rumlow." I saunter towards Fury's office, my head held high. I will not let him ruin this day, the day I am finally able to reclaim my power, to reclaim what, who, I am once more.   
I knock on the door, waiting for an answer. This could be it, the day I finally get an assignment in the field. I could feel a gun firing in my hand, the way my thoughts run quickly, plotting out different scenarios in a second’s time.   
“Come in, Romanoff.”   
Inside, Fury, Maria, and Coulson are waiting. Coulson, I hadn’t seen him in months. He grins when he sees me, stepping forward.   
“Natasha, it is good to see you. You look good.”  
“Sir, it is good to see you as well. How was the mission? How is the cellist?” I ask, teasing lightly.   
“You’ll have time to hear all about her, after _your_ mission,” I look to Fury, who gestures for me to take a seat. Hill and Coulson stand behind his desk while he sits.   
“Fran and Dr. Fine have cleared you for field work, and you refused to sit down for a mental health assessment.” I see Maria’s eyes shift from me to Fury, she looks almost angry, “Despite this, we have agreed to let you go into the field. You leave tomorrow and will be attending a party in Moscow. Coulson is heading out tonight to New Mexico, so this will be a brief reunion. Hill has prepared your case file. I expect you to be exemplary.”  
“Yes sir,” I stand up, my phone pinging at the file drops.   
“And one other thing,” Fury gives me a rare smile, “Welcome back, Agent Romanoff.”   
I arrive back at the apartment in the evening with a rather dour looking Steve waiting. We go across the street to dinner, a celebration of sorts, at the Italian restaurant. Steve orders the same pizza he got on our first night almost nine months ago.   
“Where is your mission?”  
“I can’t tell you,”   
“What are you doing?” He tries again. I take a sip of my wine. “Will you be safe?”  
“No, but I will be in control.”   
“What does that mean?”  
“It is best if you don’t know,” That you don’t know my skillset, this honeytrap to lure in men, only to snap their necks. Steve is too good to know about the Winter Soldier, about everything the Red Room has done. I don’t want to be the one to taint the goodness, something that managed to survive seventy years in the ice and nine months living with the world’s deadliest assassin.   
That night, at the diner, it is as though Flora can sense that a change has come. She brings us lemon meringue pie on the house and slips us a bottle of whiskey that the staff keeps, as the tiny diner does not have a liquor license.   
“How long will you work for SHIELD?” Steve asks as we walk home. His serum kept him perfectly sober, while I have had a bit too much to drink. I stumble against him, and lurch back quickly. “Steady, Nat.”  
“I don’t know. Until I die, I guess.” I blink.  
“You don’t want to grow old, have kids?”  
“Can’t,”   
“What?”  
“Can’t have kids,”  
“I mean, if you quit SHIELD someday,”  
“No. They took my ovaries, cut them out for my eighteenth birthday.”   
“I’m sorry, that was insensitive,” I look up at the sky.   
“You can’t see the stars out here,” My words are slurred and murmured. “At home, I can always see the stars.” Steve probably believes I am talking about the Red Room, about Russia, about where I was raised. But I am only picturing laying down in the field with Clint, Laura, Cooper, and baby Lila, watching a meteor shower overhead. Cooper climbing on me, making a wish on each shooting star.   
“Rogers,” I begin, leaning against the wall as he goes through the series of locks.   
“Romanoff,”  
“Thank you,” My lips pull into a lazy smile and I saunter into the apartment, collapsing onto my bed.

* * *

“So, your assignment with me is done?” I nod, steaming the dress costumes gave me.   
“Congrats Rogers, you’re part of the twenty-first century. It’s great, you’re going to hate it.”   
“You okay?”  
“Fine.”   
“Did you want to go back?”  
“More than anything.” I look up from my task, shutting off the steamer. “It is like having an itch you can’t scratch, no matter what you try to do. If I ignore it, it gets stronger, it gets worse. The best thing I can do is give in.”   
“What happens if you continue to ignore it?”  
“I’ve never dared,” A false, toothy grin flashes across my face. The idea of not doing something, anything, when I can, it is enough to drive me mad. These past few weeks, waiting for approval to go back into the field, now that I am healthy, it was almost more torturous than the year entirely. “Don’t you miss it?”   
“Yes, but enough to go back? I don’t know.”   
“You always this honest?” I slip the garment bag over the dress.   
“How many people know about you helping me adjust?”  
“Barton, Hill, and Fury. Coulson will soon once he has a chance to be briefed.” I pull on my leather jacket. “See you when I get back Rogers. Maybe we can go apartment hunting.” An emotion I don’t catch flits across his face, but then his Captain America smile takes its place.   
“Yes ma’am.”

I arrive at the triskelion, where Hill is waiting for me. She is tense, tenser than usual, as she holds her usual tablet to her chest.   
“You told Fury I shouldn’t go into the field,” I surmise, “Because I didn’t go for a mental health assessment.”   
“Natasha, I’m your friend. And I think of that night, at dinner, or on your birthday. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. You’re an agent second to me.”  
“I’m an asset first, always.” I correct her, “If I were back in the Red Room, they would just take the memory. Fire would probably still bother me, but I wouldn’t know why. Until I could fight through it, talk myself out of it.” I blow a lose lock of hair out of my face. “You forget what I am, Hill.” She clenches her jaw, leading me over to the camera to have a new ID photo printed. “Don’t worry about me. I was made for this, literally. The mission comes first, nothing else will get in the way.”   
I stand in front of the blank wall for my new photo, red t-shirt, and leather jacket. The flash goes off, and instantly my profile updates.   
“This is not to be a honeypot mission,” Maria states.   
“I can do what I have to do,”  
“Agent Romanoff, you read the case file, I believe that can be avoided.”   
“If that is what you want. You’re my handler on this case.”   
“Be safe. If you aren’t ready, we can pull you. It is fine. Okay?” I lie and assure her that if I am uncomfortable, that I will be pulled. She visibly relaxes at the fib, handing me my new ID and badge. I feel the glock on my hip, my favorite gun from Clint. A good luck charm. Madame would scold me for being so sentimental.   
_It’s a weapon, nothing more. Just like you_.   
“Natasha, your quinjet is waiting.” Maria informs me.  
“One all to myself?” I muse.   
“We want you to be able to leave when needed.” I don’t react to her statement, instead, we walk quietly to the jet.   
“I’m okay, Maria. Really.” The brunette looks over at me and nods stiffly.   
“I expect a comprehensive mission report no later than forty-eight hours after your return.”  
I arrive in Moscow just in time for the party. This gorgeous dress is about to get ruined, and it is a shame. Also, I am about to make a mockery of the Red Room Training, which is not nearly as devastating.   
I am shamelessly brazen as I ask for information about the shipments. I also flirt shamelessly with the man who will soon order for me to be kidnapped. It is easy, though Hill did at least make it a little interesting with allowing me to be kidnapped. It has been a while since I have had to try to escape being held prisoner.   
We end up an abandoned train depot. It is some sort of makeshift storage space; an eclectic mix of goods gather dust. I am tied to a chair, dangling over a hole in the floor while a good manhandles my jaw. Nothing would please me more than to rip of his hand. I think the general plans on taking out my tongue or something equally drab. He is chatty, giving me all the information almost without prompting. This first mission back is so easy, it is even in my mother tongue. Then the phone starts to ring.  
I look over at the henchman, who is equally embarrassed and confused. Its for me. I wrack my brain for who would be calling me, and why. It is handed over to the general, I listen carefully, hearing Coulson on the other line. He walks towards me, looking mystified, and places the phone in the crook of my neck.   
“We need you to come in.”   
“Are you kidding? I’m working,”  
“This take precedence,”  
“I’m in the middle of an interrogation. This moron is giving me everything.”  
“I don’t give everything,”  
“Look, you can’t pull me out of this right now.”   
“Natasha, Barton’s been compromised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!   
> The end dialog is not mine (of course) Is that a disclosure I am supposed to provide? Anywho, this will probably be the last chapter I post until this weekend when I update Kindred, though a Thanksgiving mini-fic will be posted on Tumblr, and possibly the Yelena one-shot depending on how many views I get in the next few days!   
> Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans, and to my non-American readers, I highly recommend cranberry sauce. This week marks the 400th anniversary of the the landing of the Pilgrims and the 399th Thanksgiving, time sure does fly! 🦃   
> Thank you all again! :)


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for brief canon mention of suicide**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!! Sorry for the delay- I've been writing a lot for Kindred and doing real life stuff!  
> This chapter is a recap of Avengers (2012) from Nat's POV. About half the dialogue isn't mine-  
> Next chapter will be more interesting, promise!! The Avengers movie I'm most excited to write about? Hands down CATWS, it is going to be a ball!  
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

I hurry from the cell holding Loki. The past twelve hours have been the stuff of nightmares. I think of Clint, telling me years ago that there will be an alien invasion, even getting my sister on board, and I cast it off as one of his wild conspiracy theories. Clint. It is hard to separate Agent Barton and Clint, which is necessary right now.  
Clint has a wife and two children, all of whom I have sent to a safe house that he doesn’t know about, two hours from the farm.  
I love Clint, I owe agent Barton a debt. Compartmentalization, it used to be so much easier. My thoughts swirl with what Loki said about my past, about my ledger. Clint used my words to tell him about my past. When he mentioned the hospital fire, Sao Paulo, I felt pressure building, as it is now. Fire. Clint, not agent Barton, would be the one to kill me. To kill me in a way I would fear, slowly, intimately. We both know what way that would be, and that I would not pass out from pain, or die from smoke inhalation.  
Dreykov’s daughter. That betrayal hits particularly deep. Something I had divulged in the dark of the night, on a mountain in the Andes as we waited for our extraction team, snow covered with blood. I had two bullet wounds from diving in front of a little girl, they were nothing serious, but bad enough for Clint to try and lecture me. In a moment of weakness, I had revealed it to him. Honesty, vulnerability. They are one in the same, really.  
I gather Thor, bringing him into the lab, where all eyes swivel towards me. Stark looks unsurprised, Banner betrayed, and Steve- he looks hurt, making this all personal.  
“Did you know about this?” the scientist accuses, gesturing to the weapons on the monitor. I do my best not to look at Fury.  
“You want to think about removing yourself from this environment, Doctor?” I deflect. Because I had no idea that Fury was creating weapons of mass destruction, but I am loyal to Fury. His pet, his bitch, as Rumlow would say. Though, I wonder where the hell he is during all of this.  
“I was in Calcutta. I was pretty well removed,”  
“Loki is manipulating you,” Just like me.  
“And you’ve been doing what, exactly?” I hold back my surprise that he caught on to what I was doing.  
“You didn’t come here because I mat my eyelashes at you.” Move the blame off of me, because truthfully, he could have said no. It is unlikely I would have been able to force him. I’m yet to see Hulk outside of video footage, and I’m not sure I’d like to. He is an unknown variable, unpredictable. He doesn’t respond as people do, and I don’t know how to manage someone like that.  
“Yes, and I’m not leaving because suddenly you get a little twitchy.” He retorts. I bite my tongue and it quickly becomes a pissing contest between the men in the room. Even Sharon would be preferable at this point.  
“Are you boys really that naïve?” I jump in, “SHIELD monitors potential threats,”  
“Captain America’s on threat watch?”  
“We all are.” Each one of us. Looking around the room, its obvious why. Looking at me, Banner and Thor might not know what I am, but Stark is at least partially cued into the monster within me.  
The debates continue, which we truly don’t have time for. Banner is a bomb and Loki would like nothing more than to be the detonator. However, everyone goes quiet at the mention of suicide. I stopped Tony from committing it two years ago, and Steve and I have both failed at it. I’ll never be allowed the freedom of that choice.  
My hand moves to my gun as the doctor’s picks up the scepter, but as he says, we are not given a chance to see his party trick.  
There is a rush of smoke and fire as we fall through the floor. I cough, trying to breathe, and am instantly brought back to the car, begging for death. Being pinned. No, I’m not there. I try to move. I twist and turn, my gasps coming quicker. It’s happening again, it can’t happen again.  
“Romanoff!” Fury commands, and my thoughts come swimming back to me in full focus. This is a mission. I look over and see Doctor Banner lying beside me, seemingly uninjured.   
“We’re okay,” I reply after a beat, and then look back over. His fist in clenched, the veins bulging, the muscles in his arms pulsing. My mouth goes dry. “We’re okay, right?” I ask, trying to keep the fear out of my voice, “Doctor? Bruce? You got to fight it; this is just what Loki wants. We’re going to be okay, listen to me,” I think of what Clint does when I am slipping, keeping me talking, keeping me present.  
“Are you hurt?” Two engineers come running over. I wave them off frantically, despite the fact that my ankle is pinned under a lead pipe and likely broken.  
“We’re going to be okay, alright?” I coach, “I swear on my life, I will get you out of this. You will walk away and never ever,”  
“Your life?” He roars, the docile doctor begins to disappear.  
“Bruce?” I try one last time, all while struggling to lift the pipe in my panic. I unpin myself, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ankle. And then he turns on me.  
Each step sends sharp needles travelling up my leg. I drop between floors, trying to evade him, my heart pounds in my ears, matching each step, as I stumble, fall.  
I duck behind a furnace, trying to catch my breath. The skin on my thigh is still tight, a reminder swirled in with the smoke that lingers in the air.  
Selfishly, I want Clint.  
The Hulk appears in my face, roaring. I shoot above his head before he can attack, sending steam raining down, and begin to run through the narrow hall of servers, my ankle wobbling. However, it is like the metal and glass corridors don’t exist has he bursts through the glass.  
I feel his hand meet my side, and I’m flying through the air. My body hits a metal will with a thud. He stalks towards me, ready to kill, his teeth bared. Madame did not train me for this. I was trained to beguile men, to appeal to their inner demon, not when the demon has an inner man. This cannot be when I go. Not after everything. Not until I know Laura and the kids are safe, that Clint is home safe.  
He takes a step forward, and I can imagine him tearing my body in half. Then, he is gone. I take a deep breath and hear popping from my ribs. I dig my nails into my palms. I have to stay.  
If this is the attack, then it is likely that Clint is nearby, perhaps even here. I am jolted out of my thoughts by Fury’s voice. There is yelling on the coms, that I had somehow missed.  
“It’s Barton, he took out our systems. He’s headed for the detention level. Does anybody copy.” It takes me a moment to find my voice.  
“This is Agent Romanoff. I copy.” Barton. I struggle to get off the ground, pulling myself up by my good side. Fury would probably have wanted anyone else to be the one to volunteer, but I must truly be the only one available. I grasp the railing on the staircase and close my eyes for a moment, taking a calming breath, and push aside any of my paint or discomfort.  
I find him on the deck, and he spins around to shoot me, but I misalign his bow, sending the arrow far above me head. He is trying to kill me. I try not to injure him, while he does not hold back. Arrow after arrow, using his bow as a garrot.  
Then he pulls out his knife.  
I hyperextend his arm, and the knife switches hands, one of my own moves. The weapon get closer to my throat, the tip centimeters from my chin, and I try to think of something to do that won’t seriously injure him. My teeth meet his wrist. Under different circumstances, he would have laughed at the dirty play.  
I flip him behind me and throw him too hard, his head slams into the yellow railing and he slumps over, sliding to the ground. But he begins to get up, and he calls me thick headed.  
“Natasha?” With a quick punch, I knock him out, sending him sprawling. Seconds later, medical comes rushing onto the scene, taking in Agent Barton and I. They try to help me too, but I stop them when Fury begins to speak.  
In Clint’s hospital room, which looks more like a prison, I finish binding my ankle and pulling back on my boot, just as he begins to come through.  
“Hey, Clint. It’s me. Everything is okay,” Clint shakes his head, groaning and pulling against the restraints. “Clint,” I try again, “You’re going to be all right.”  
“You know that?” He laughs. “Is that what you know? I’ve got no window; I have to flush him out.” This must be what I sound like.  
“You got to level out. It’s gonna take time.”  
“You don’t understand,” He gasps as I pour him a cup of water. “Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in? Do you know what its like to be unmade?” My heart clenches at the ignorance of his statement.  
“You know that I do.” Out everyone in the world, I understand more than anyone. I have been unmade so many times, I don’t know who I was originally, who Natalia was before she first got wiped.  
“Why am I back? How’d you get him out?” His thoughts have already wandered away from the careless statement.  
“Cognitive recalibration. I hit you really hard in the head.” I recall back to when he mistakenly did the same for me.  
“Thanks.” He meets my eyes as I undo the straps on his wrists. “Natasha. How many agents did I?”  
I answer questions for him, being purposefully vague, hoping to alleviate guilt. Before I have to tell him that the closest person that he has ever had to a father is dead.  
“Now you sound like you,” I tease after he makes a joke, but it doesn’t hold the same levity as usual.  
“But you don’t. You’re a spy, and now you sound like a soldier. Now you want to wade into a war? Why? What did Loki do to you?”  
“He didn’t. I just,” I look away. He hurt you, I want to tell him. But it is like separation of Church and State. We are at work. This is work. He is Agent Barton and I am Agent Romanoff.  
“Natasha,”  
“I’ve been compromised. I got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out.” Or at least try. We talk for a few more minutes about the events as he builds up the courage to ask what is really on his mind.  
“Laura, the kids,”  
“Safe. Remember the two safe houses we had ‘just in case’?”  
“I could have gotten them killed. Nat, God.”  
“They’re safe, we can call them.” I offer, though I had already texted Laura an hour ago that everything was under control, that Clint is safe.  
“What aren’t you telling me?” He gets up from the bed, shaking. “What happened?”  
“Coulson is dead.” His entire body tenses up and then his face crumbles. “I’m sorry, Clint. I know what he meant to you.”  
“How did he die?”  
“Loki killed him during his escape, he died trying to stop him.”  
“So, its my fault.” His voice completely lacks emotion, and it gives me pause.  
“Okay, we are not doing this.” I head towards the door. “You have half an hour to call Laura and get your head together. Then, we are going to go out and get this bastard and avenge Phil. I’m sorry for your loss, but now isn’t the time to grieve, right now we fight.” He stares at me for a moment and nods his head. I reach into my pocked and toss him the burner phone for contacting Laura, and leave the medbay, running right into Steve.  
“Natasha, how is he?” Steve looks over my shoulder, as if expecting Clint to be right there.  
“Fine.”  
“You know, you can talk to me. We’re friends, right?”  
“This is work,” I remind him, but I nudge his shoulder as I walk by, hoping he understands.   
“Of course, ma’am. Have to keep it professional,”  
“Don’t get started on that again,” He follows me up to the observation deck, where Hill is trying to pull everything back together.  
“Is he okay?”  
“Honestly? No. SHIELD is never going to let him be an agent again, and he is going to have a lot of guilt over getting Phil killed.”  
“He’s going to be okay. He’s got you, right?” I nod, hoping that when I’m not enough, his family will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will take place during Shawarma, and then Clint coming home and Nat's trip to Coney Island (don't think I forgot!!)  
> Thank you all for reading! Especially because most of you were hoping a notification from me was an update on Kindred ;)  
> But seriously, thank you all and hope you have a great rest of your week!!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> Bet you all thought I forgot about Volition😜  
> But it is back!!! I was lacking inspiration for a while, but I found it once more!
> 
> I should have the next Kindred chapter up by Thursday, though I am shooting for earlier. Hope you all had a safe and happy New Year! May 2021 be filled with health, happiness, and growth. 
> 
> So with out further udo, please enjoy the chapter below! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated :)

It seems impossible, to be sitting here next to Clint and Steve, eating shawarma. We battled aliens and gods, and now, surrounded by debris, I am eating a pita filled with smoked meats.  
Clint has one leg propped up on my chair, leaning towards me. Steve seems to be falling asleep at the table. We all look like we have just barely conquered death.  
The reporters on TV are marveling over Iron Man and his near sacrifice, but no one mentions me. Though, I suppose I prefer it this way. No one mentions that I threw myself at the portal, prepared to do whatever it took, whether or not shutting it down by combining two power sources would have killed me. Steve, however, seems to know, as he glances over at me, giving me a singular nod.  
Clint is fiddling with the napkin on his lap, the toll of the past few days beginning to mount on his soul.  
We clean up in the helicarrier before seeing off Loki. Clint keeps sunglasses on, even inside, as he is scared to look in the mirror and pass a window and see the unnaturally blue irises.  
“They had to put a muzzle on Loki, I think Ton could use one too,” I joke. He smiles but says nothing in return.  
We give our goodbyes and climb into the cab that will take us back to the airport where a private jet is waiting, courtesy of Fury.  
In the car, Clint’s leg bounces up and down, and he is doing the annoying trigger finger thing that I can see out of the corner of my eye. But neither of us are willing to speak in front of the cab driver. Finally, we reach the airstrip and I take both our bags before Clint has the chance.  
On the plan, he doesn’t take a seat, instead walking up and down the aisles, almost too slow to be pacing.  
“Clint, come take a seat, please. I think they must have something to eat or drink. Maybe a cup of black coffee?”  
“Stop talking!” He snaps. I widen my eyes, I cannot remember the last time Clint raised his voice, let alone to me. He sinks to the floor, running his fingers through his hair, almost ripping at it. I climb out of my seat, pulling off my boots, and sit down next to him, my shoulder pressed against his.  
A few hours later, when the wheels have touched down at the farm, Clint is woken from his unrestful sleep. I wish the pilot could have circled around a few more times before touching down, as knowing Clint, he won’t trust himself to sleep around Laura and the kids.  
“We have to get off the plane,” I speak up, waiting for the berating for speaking once more. Instead, he just nods his head, resigned to the fact, and disembarks.  
Laura is waiting on the front porch, no kids in sight, blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The nerves I have felt over the last few days are playing out on her face. But as we get closer, she forces out a smile.  
“Hi, welcome home,” She extends her arms for a hug and Clint makes no move to approach her. Going against every instinct, I do. Her arms wrap around me, muscles tightened, and I can feel her tension rolling off in waves. I push down my panic from being held so tightly, knowing that she needs this, needs someone who is there for her, so I reciprocate the embrace. She leans into me, but allows herself only a moment, before pulling away.  
“I made chicken noodle soup, we’re having a bit of a cold snap,”  
“Where are the kids?” Clint’s voice cracks, and he stares at the house as though it may explode at any moment.  
“They are next door, I’ll pick them up before dinner. Cooper made you a card,” He tightens his jaw and steps into the house.  
He sits down at the table with none of the familiarity of someone who is home. His back is ramrod straight.  
“I got off the phone with Maria a few minutes ago. She said you guys were amazing out in New York. And Nat, you rode an alien? Clint, there was footage of you,”  
“Stop.” The archer buries his head in his hands. “Stop talking about it.”  
“Of course, well, it is almost your birthday. I was thinking,”  
“I can’t be here,”  
“Clint,” I whisper.  
“I can’t be here.” He pushes back from the table.  
“I’m sorry, honey. What do you need?”  
“What do I need? I need to be away from all of you, as far away as possible,” He hurries out the back door, slamming it shut behind him.  
“Natasha,”  
“He didn’t mean how it sounded. He is scared of hurting you, them, us. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be here.”  
“I understand.” She turns off the stove and begins to take out Tupperware containers for the soup. “You know, it freezes really well. I could send some back with you,”  
“I can stay,”  
“Thank you,”  
“However long you need,”  
“He needs you, more than he needs me. It is funny, when my mother made that awful comment about you years ago, about you being a threat to my marriage, I didn’t give it a second thought. My sister gave me a hard time, even my neighbors who met you. But what they don’t understand is that you two are soulmates. I’ve known it from the first time I saw you interact. Two sides of the same coin,”  
“Laura, I would never,”  
“Oh stop that. I know.” She sniffles, “You don’t love him like that, like how I do. You can be soulmates and not have romantic feelings for someone. I think he needs you more than he needs me right now.”  
“He still needs you, he was so scared that he would have hurt you,”  
“And you wouldn’t let that happen.” She straightens up, “Well you should go see how far our hawk has flown. I am going to put fresh towels in your bathroom.”  
“Thank you, Laura.” She heads towards the living room and staircase, but hesitates.  
“You went through this type of thing, right?”  
“Yes, when I was a child.”  
“How did you get through it?”  
“Yelena. She always walked me back. It just takes time and patience. Our Clint isn’t gone, he just needs to find his way back.”  
I pull back on my jacket and march through the frozen grass, following the footprints leading into the woods. Unfortunately, they quickly fall off at the tree line as he took for the branches. Unlike Clint and Yelena, climbing trees have never been my particular skillset.  
Instead, I wander through the woods, listening for any sound that might give him away. From a branch snapping to a shuttered breath. Were it later in the spring season, there would be too many creatures awake to distinguish Clint in the forest cacophony.  
I come to an ancient oak tree and sit at the base, waiting. Eventually, there is some shifting overhead and he drops down silently beside me.  
“I’ve upset Laura.”  
“She is just worried about you, like me. Like everyone.”  
“I killed,”  
“You can’t do that to yourself. It wasn’t you,”  
“So only you are allowed to feel guilt for things that aren’t your fault? Is that what it is?”  
“That isn’t fair.”  
“Natasha, I killed my dad. Not my father, but my _dad_.”  
“Loki killed him. Not you, you didn’t even hold the weapon.”  
“But if I hadn’t led him there, and the innocent people, the agents. They had families.”  
“You were a victim. And I am not going to sit here and listen to your pity party.”  
“No one is making you be here at all.” He glares, and then his shoulders sag. “You’re here on orders, aren’t you?”  
“Even if I weren’t, I’d still be here.”  
“It isn’t fair,”  
“Life isn’t fair, that is part of it.” I step closer, “Hit me.”  
“What?”  
“I said hit me.”  
“Natasha, I’m not hitting you,”  
“Come on,” I shove him, hard, and he tumbles back into the brambles, then brushes himself off, anger flaring.  
“Stop it,”   
“What are you going to do? Are you just going to take it?” I go for another shove and he stops my arms, I duck under his block hitting his stomach.  
He swings back. I let him hit me. I fight halfheartedly allowing more hits than usual, as the shame is humiliation he is feeling leaks out through each strike. Finally, as we are both huffing, he lets his hands fall to the side.  
“Better?”  
“Yeah. Thanks.” He steps back, staring at the giant tree.  
“You should build a treehouse.”  
“What?”  
“What kids don’t want a treehouse? Coop would be thrilled,”  
“I have to go to work, I have missions.” I don’t answer, “Natasha, I have a job. I have a job, right?”  
“If the Avengers form, you will have a place on the team, I promise. It was my stipulation.”  
“Great, so they are just taking me so they can have you. And SHIELD?”  
“You are compromised, beyond their comfort level. You will be submitting for your retirement in the next few weeks, and you will continue to receive full benefits, and you will be compensated handsomely.”  
“So that’s it? After all these years,”  
“Not many people in our field even live to get the chance to retire. This is a good thing,”  
“You wouldn’t think so if it was happening to you.”  
“I’m not you. You have a family, a future. All I will ever have is my past.” I bump his shoulder. “Come on. You and I are going to head back to the house, get some blankets and make a little campout in the barn until you’re ready to sleep in the house.”  
He drags his feet behind him the whole walk through. Every branch snapping causes him to jump, flinch. He is on edge and wound tightly, ready to snap at any moment. Even if he hadn’t wanted to sleep in the barn, I am not comfortable with him being in the house, sleeping next to Laura. There was a reason we were handcuffed to our beds.  
We blow up two air mattresses and setup the space heater. The barn is not exactly warm, but better than sleeping outside, or in a tent. For a few nights, until we see where his head is at, this will do. There is a rumble of a car on the gravel driveway a short while later, just as I manage to get the fitted sheet onto my bed. The kids.  
Clint does not leave the barn for the rest of the evening, and I go in for dinner upon his insistence, but make my visit quick, uncomfortable leaving him alone for too long.  
“Auntie Nat, you and Dad were on TV!” Cooper tugs me up to his room while Laura finishes preparing the pot roast, showing me the drawings on his walls depicting the Battle of New York, as it has been deemed.  
“This looks awesome, Coop. You really got my hair down,” Firehouse red scribbles come off in every direction from my head.  
“Where is Dad?”  
“He isn’t feeling well, so he and I are staying out in the barn for a few days,”  
“Are you going to get sick?”  
“No, I’m okay, it isn’t contagious.”  
“What does he have?” Cooper stares up at me, his big blue eyes filled with concern.  
“He is sick in here,” I touch his heart, “Some bad stuff happened,”  
“Mom told me Uncle Phil died,”  
“Yeah, he did.” Cooper’s head droops.  
“Does Dad have what,”  
“No!” I quickly jump in, “You’re Dad isn’t going to die from this, I’ll make sure of it.”  
“I trust you,” His clammy little hand slips into mine, “We should go down to dinner. Mom said I could serve the mashed potatoes.”  
When I head back into the barn, I have a care package of cards and leftovers. I also snagged a boxed set of his favorite mysteries and the laptop.  
“I don’t know if the Wi-Fi reaches out here, so I brought out some DVDs,”  
“Stop being upbeat, it doesn’t suit you,”  
“Fine. I will sit here and wallow with you. Should we discuss the melting of the polar ice caps or the inevitability that someday our planet will be absorbed by the sun and erase any evidence that we ever existed?” He ignores me, choosing instead to lie down, turning away from me.  
However, by morning, he is no longer cross with me, as I sat beside his bed the night through, soothing him from every nightmare and delusion, all his confusion and panic. Every time we pass by a reflective surface, he checks his eyes, making sure they are a natural shade of blue.  
“Do you want to go into the house? Say hi to the kids?” My question isn’t dignified with a response. This goes on for days, until one morning, after finally giving into sleep, I wake up to be alone in the empty horse stall.  
I race through the yard in my pajamas and fly up the front porch steps. The vision of a massacre flashes though my mind, finding the entire family dead. Instead, in the kitchen, Clint is making breakfast. He is tense in his usual position in front of the stove, but Cooper sits next to him on the counter, and Laura feeds Lila at the kitchen table.  
“Good morning,”  
“Auntie Nat, Dad is making Mickey Mouse pancakes,”  
“Oh, well count me in,” I grin but then look over to Laura, who seems cautiously optimistic as she gives me a bright smile with concerned eyes.  
Later that day, I follow him from the barn and out to the forest, back to the ancient oak, as he carries wood and construction materials.  
“So, you’re building the treehouse?”  
“Yes, need to do something constructive.”  
“Do you want help?”  
“I’m good Nat, really. I’m doing better,”  
“It’s only been a week,”  
“How long did it take you to bounce back after,” He trails off, gesturing with his hand.  
“A day or two, but,”  
“Exactly. I’m fine now.”  
“I just,”  
“I’m still seeing my therapist, we talked yesterday. And that is more than I can say for you,”  
“Don’t be a jackass.” I drop the wood I was helping to carry. In reality, the multiple trips he has been making to carry out supplies, I could have done it in one, two if my hands are too full. But I was trying to be respectful, though that seems to be going out the window. “I am your best friend, I am trying to be here for you.”  
“Well I just got off the phone with Maria last night, while you were having dinner with Laura.”  
“Okay,” I cross my arms.  
“You are wanted back at headquarters sooner rather than later. They have things for you to do, people to kill. You also need to teach your new _partner_ the ropes,” He drops the latest round of wood boards, huffing.  
“I never agreed to that, Fury knows it is either you or no one,”  
“It is Captain America. He joined SHIELD.” I fall silent, “Apparently, he only agreed to go on missions if it is with you. He doesn’t trust the rest of the them yet.”  
“Steve would understand, I can stay, and Fury can wait,”  
“You have a life, Nat. Get back to it. We don’t need you here.”  
“Clint, please,”  
“I already bought you a flight for tomorrow morning and let Fury know.” He lays an axe to the wood, ending the conversation.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! New chapter as promised!! It is all fluff, so shorter than usual lol- You all know how I struggle to write fluff. But I felt it was needed after my last chapter of Kindred
> 
> Hope you are all enjoying your weekend and for my fellow Americans a nice long weekend!! 
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated :)

I wait in baggage claim, hood pulled up to hide my red hair. It is like a beacon, almost to the point where I am considering dying it brown just to blend in. The carrousel begins to fill with bags from my flight. The flight was full, a mystery to me. The fact that anyone would want to be in New York right now is unfathomable. It looks like a warzone, though I guess just a week ago, it was.   
“Hi Steve,” I turn to my right and see the super soldier.   
“How?”  
“I could hear you, don’t worry, we’ll work on it. It’s good to see you.” I step forward, grabbing my duffel.   
“How is he?”  
“Fine. Sent me packing. Apparently, someone needed a partner,” Steve’s eyes widen, and he stammers.   
“Nat,”  
“I’m just giving you a hard time Rogers, as if you could force me to do anything.” He tries to take my bag, “And I think you forget who you’re dealing with,”  
“Yes ma’am,” He smiles and pulls his baseball cap down further. We walk a little ways until reaching his motorcycle.   
However, as we begin to ride, he goes in the opposite direction of my apartment. All my questions pestering about where we are going are promptly ignored.   
“We had a deal, Romanoff,” is all I get.   
Our destination becomes apparent as we enter Brooklyn and head towards the water. It is cold, windy, and wet- on par for late March in New York, but Steve acts as though it is May. Our speed becomes increasingly slower, and his enthusiasm appears to dim.   
We reach a parking lot, practically empty save for a few cars, and lock up my bag. He stands, staring at the entrance. Behind us are brutalist style buildings that remind me more of Russia than I would like.   
“Well, you’ve got a lot to show me,” I begin to walk towards the entrance of the park. Despite the fact that I have just gotten off a plane and haven’t slept properly in weeks, I find myself excited to see a place that Steve holds so dear, even if it has changed a lot since his last visit.   
The park is rundown and is more reminiscent of a traveling carnival than an American landmark. We are surrounded by cracked asphalt and grumpy teenage employees, mumbling that it is too early in the season to be open. Buildings are boarded up, and there is a sense of decay and death that seems to linger, of a golden era that has passed. A time and place that no longer exists. Steve’s frown grows with each step and each discovery, his shoulders drooping.   
As morning becomes afternoon, the clouds thin out, and the suns rays begins to scare off the aching dampness that lingered in the air.  
We reach a wooden rollercoaster, one of the few rides that looks permanent and well cared for.   
“This is the Cyclone, God I remember when it opened. Bucky was so excited. He must’ve ridden it a dozen times that weekend,”  
“You didn’t?”  
“I did once, threw up everywhere, all over Ruthie White. We were only ten, but I swear she held it against me until we graduated.”   
“Do you want to ride it now?”  
“Really?”  
“Sure, but if you throw up on me, I will have to kill you,”  
“You know, when you said things like that, I felt a lot better about them before I found out you were an assassin.”   
“It’s part of my charm,” I joke.   
There is no line, and we end up being the only two people on the ride. Much to Steve’s horror, I have us take the front car.   
“Come on, you crashed a plane into the ocean but you’re going to let a little rollercoaster scare you?”  
“This thing is almost a hundred years old,”  
“See? You’ve got something in common,” The rollercoaster begins to make its ascent up the rickety tracks.   
We step off the ride and Steve is practically beaming as we wander around the park. He begins to point out places where he and Bucky would hang out and search for dropped pennies.   
The boardwalk has a bit more life than the park. Families impatient for spring have taken to the strip, their children wearing fleeces and hats, while the parents cradle hot drinks that are likely not coffee. We are given a few sideways glances, but no one seems to recognize us. We dominate carnival games. I win at the water shooter, and he at the ball toss to knock over milk bottles. Both times, we give our prizes to a nearby child.   
“You and I are going to have to do a round a ski ball to determine winner,” I state, taking my snack from the vendor. A little boy no older than ten or eleven comes running by, calling over his shoulder.   
“Come on Uncle Ben, we have to ride the Ferris Wheel before we go home,”   
“I loved the Ferris Wheel,” Steve confides as we sit down at a picnic table our soft pretzels. “I would ride it multiple times and ask the operator to stop my at the top for a long time so I could draw the skyline or the people below. I think the guy must have taken pity on me on account of me looking so sick.”   
“I think that kid had the right idea then, we have to ride it before we go home.” I pop the final piece of my pretzel into my mouth.   
“How are you doing?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, your first mission back turned into saving the world, and you tried to sacrifice yourself.”  
“We all were willing to die out there. Every single one of us.” I lean onto the table, crossing my arms.   
“Besides Stark, you came the closest.”  
“It is part of the job. It’s best not to think too hard about it.”   
“And the fire,”  
“Compartmentalization, Rogers. It is the best skill I have.” I pause, “Besides my shooting abilities of course,” I drum my fingers on the table, trying to appear more relaxes and loosen my arms. “So, have you visited that friend of yours while you were up here? A war buddy’s grandchild?”  
“Yes, I saw him yesterday, made a little video for his kids.”  
“About what?” I raise my eyebrows.   
“Responsibility, being a good person. You know, stuff like that.”  
“Oh the righteous Captain America,” I feign dramatics, “As if you didn’t lie to get drafted for the war, or disobey direct orders and go save your friends,”  
“I had a good reason for doing that,”  
“And I’m sure that’s what the kid will say when asked why they skipped school,” We throw our wrappers in the trash and seagulls caw overhead, hoping for a child to drop their boat of French fries.   
A tourism photographer is setting up as we stroll back towards the rides, and Steve grins at me.   
“Oh no,”  
“It will be a nice way to remember today,”  
“You and I have perfect memories,”  
“Please Nat?” I roll my eyes and he takes that as a yes. Though when he hears the price for a photo, I think he may faint. To save Steve from the embarrassment needing smelling salts, I take twenty out of my pocket, handing it to the man.   
We pose with our backs to the water, and Steve goes to loop his arm around my back. I tense, waiting for him touch me, but instead, his arm hovers behind, not touching. The photographer snaps the picture and we are both given a five by seven.   
“I think this is going on the mantle,”  
“It’s a nice photo,” Steve looks at the two of us, smiling at the camera. I’m surprised to see I actually _look_ happy, my eyes are alive, not dead and flat.   
“Fine, it’s a nice one,” I concede.   
As we get in line for the Wonder Wheel, as this Ferris Wheel is named, I slip the operator five dollars to let us stay at the top longer, a wordless exchange. I have a feeling that Steve’s friend Bucky used to do the same.   
The day went by impossibly fast, as it seems impossible that is would already be sunset. But the world sky is awash with vibrant pinks and oranges. And Steve appreciates it with an artist’s eye, looking over the at the New York skyline in one direction and the horizon in the other.   
“Thank you for coming with me,”  
“You were supposed to be giving me a ride home from the airport,” I remind him.   
“You had to have known,”  
“I figured we would go tomorrow. The forecast is beautiful,”  
“Guess I couldn’t wait,” He shrugs as we walk through the parking lot towards the car. “So when did you buy a place in New York?”   
“2010, it is just a little place in Hell’s Kitchen. Seemed like an aptly named place for me to have a place.”  
“So you aren’t going to take up Stark’s offer? He was even saying he’d give you and Clint a whole floor.”   
“I haven’t decided. I don’t think Clint will accept, and he’s not coming out here any time soon,”   
“I know we’re here on cleanup for a few more days, but if the Avengers get established, we will probably be splitting our time between here and D.C.”   
“Well, then maybe I’ll consider it.” I climb onto the back of the bike, as Steve rejects my offer to drive. “Is Dr. Banner staying there right now?” I try to come off as nonchalant.   
“Yeah, he and Tony are working on some project. Thor is there too. It is fun, but they can all be a bit much.”  
“That is a lot of testosterone for one girl to handle.” Steve turns on his motorcycle, revving the engine.   
“So, where to, ma’am?” I hesitate only for a moment.   
“Stark Tower.”


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! Hope you are having a great weekend :)
> 
> I'm actually quite fond of this chapter and hope you like it too! 
> 
> As always, I love and appreciate every comment, no matter how small! It means a lot to me to know people are reading my stories!!
> 
> *Edit* Can someone please comment so I know that people are reading and I should continue?

I begrudgingly head to the building that Stark has renamed “Avenger’s Tower”. Steve, Thor, and Dr. Banner have already moved in. It was only through Steve’s begging and Laura’s gentle suggestion, that I carry two bags of my belongings up from my car, which I had just driven from D.C. Apparently, I will be staying here a while. On Fury’s orders.  
One security guard has the courage to ask for an ID, while the other smacks him upside the head. Clint is yet to answer my text checking in, and I don’t have the patience for much today. The elevator is quiet, though I imagine Jarvis is watching me, ready to assist at a moment’s notice.  
The doors open to the penthouse floor. All of the guys are sitting on the couch, though their heads spin around as I step out.  
“Nat!” Steve jumps over the couch, “You came,”  
“Romanoff, have to say, I’m surprised.” Tony strolls over and takes a look at the bags I dropped by my feet. He picks one of them up, and winces, “Damn, this is heavy. All your weapons?” I grab the bag back from him, feeling protective over my books.  
“Lady Natasha, we were about to watch a game of hockey, if you would like to join us.”  
“Plenty of room on the couch,” Steve adds. I notice Doctor Banner standing in the back and feel a twinge of apprehension.  
“I’m going to go check out my apartment. Maybe later.” I turn on my heels back towards the elevator and ask Jarvis to bring my to my floor. The one I share with Clint, per Stark’s designation. Whether or not he will ever come here is an entirely different matter. I open the door to my apartment, and it is exactly what one would want for the Black Widow.  
Sleek furniture and an open floor plan. Through a set of double doors, a California king bed sits in the middle of the room, not against the wall. I surprised there isn’t some kind of water feature, like a waterfall leading to a secret office or lair. However, when I step onto the terrace, I see there is indeed a waterfall, albeit a small one, flowing into a jet-black hot tub.  
I head back into the living room and see a bookshelf filled with various odds and ends. I push them to the side and open up my bag, carefully lining up my favorite books. The others are still in DC, sitting in my apartment. The only home I have ever known.  
“Ms. Romanoff, Captain Rogers would like to know if he can come down,”  
“Sure,” I pick up the other suitcase, filled with clothes, and chuck it in the bedroom. The rest of my things that I chose to pack will be arriving in the next few days. As for the weapons Tony inquired about, I have the ones that are most important on me at all times, and inside my black Birkin are my ballet slippers and Fabergé egg. The elevator dings, announcing Steve’s arrival.  
“Hey Rogers,” I head over to the kitchen, beginning to dig through the cabinets for what I am truly after.  
“Hey, you okay?”  
“Fine.”  
“You kind of ran out on us back there,” He rubs the back of his neck.  
“I didn’t want to hang out.” I sigh, unable to find the vodka. Which means it is probably at the bar, in the penthouse.  
“You know you’re wanted here, right?”  
“I wouldn’t have been invited to live here otherwise. Unless of course we all had a mutual superior officer, who commanded it.”   
“Stark is irritating, but he means well. I think,”  
“I actually like Stark, most of the time.”  
“Then come up with me,” He pleads. “And there is vodka, I picked it up at the store this morning.”  
“Now you’re speaking my language,” I force out a smile and ignore the hammering in my heart. There is no way for me to avoid this. Suddenly, this cold apartment is appearing a lot more welcoming. At least I am alone. Steve bumps my shoulder in the elevator, but I can’t bring myself to do it back.  
“Good, you got the Widow to join us!” We are waved over to the couch where drinks and appetizers have been spread out. “Put up your feet, stay a while.”  
I sit down on the couch, my back straight. I curl my toes, digging them into the soles of my boots.   
“You had plenty to say while we were working, nothing now?”  
“There isn’t exactly a purpose to talking. We’re watching a game,” I gesture to the TV.  
“You were explaining the rules to me, Man of Iron,” Thor prompts. I can feel Doctor Banner’s gaze on me, and I do my best to concentrate on the game and nurse the glass of Grey Goose in my hand. I can’t even drink the bottle without giving away what I am.  
As soon as the final period ends, I say my goodbyes and head back to my apartment. After some exploring, I find a small gym and a barebones office.  
“Jarvis,” I ask the AI, “Can you please project a target onto the wall at the end of the hallway?”  
“Of course,” Instantly, one appears.  
The twenty-foot hallway is perfect. I set my stance and pull my throwing knives from my back. The knives cut through the air and nail the target.  
“Ms. Romanoff, may I suggest the range two floors below?”  
“No, you may not.”

It becomes a pattern, Steve coming to force me out of the apartment and to the common floor. Despite my griping, he does not give up. We clean up the city and go to press conferences. I am mostly forgotten when with the press. Until I get an inappropriate question. Like which of the boys I am dating. Or if any designers have stepped up offering to remake my suit.  
Until, finally, Steve and I receive our first mission. I am itching to get in the field. It will be my first complete mission in over a year.  
Hill arrives up from D.C. with a quinjet and announces that she will be splitting her time between D.C. and New York as well. I’m ashamed of how grateful I am for another familiar face.  
Steve lets me pilot and I can feel him wanting to talk throughout the flight, but it isn’t until we near our destination that he finally speaks.  
“Why don’t you spend time with the team?”  
“We’re not a team. It isn’t official.”  
“You know they’re finalizing the details with the world security council.”  
“I am not the hanging out type. There isn’t a point.”  
“A point?”  
“Yes. There isn’t a point to hanging out with everyone. It won’t affect my ability to perform in the field, if that is what you are concerned about.”  
“Nat,” He groans, “It is about bonding, trusting each other. I don’t exactly want to hang out with them all the time either.”  
“You are likable. I’m not.”  
“Yes you are,” I raise my eyebrows at him, “Once they get to know you, they’ll like you. Maybe show off your super strength or,”  
“No.” I snap, nearly halting the jet in the air. “Don’t tell them. Don’t tell anyone what I am.”  
“But Natasha,”  
“No. You know what could happen to me if the world finds out. Stark can’t keep a secret to save his life, Thor is such a variable, and Dr. Banner,”  
“Why do you call him that?” Steve interrupts.  
“Call who what?”  
“Call Bruce Dr. Banner,”  
“That is his name, I call you, Rogers, and Tony, Stark.”  
“If you called him just Banner, sure, but,”  
“Steve, this is going to be a long mission, and partnership, if you piss me off this early.” I grip the controls tighter.  
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I nod, keeping my eyes on the sky.  
We land in northern Italy, keeping the cloaking for the jet on. It is on the edge of a small town, and I balk at the sight of the cottage a few hundred feet away.  
“These are the right coordinates, right?” I turn back, looking at Steve who has the GPS device in hand.  
“Yeah, this is it.”  
House is barely an adequate term for the structure. The door is hardly more than wood planks with hinges. And none of the windows have any glass- the upstairs ones have shutters to keep out the elements, though venturing to the second floor of this building seems like a mission all in itself.  
I march forward, accepting our fate, and heading up the overgrown dirt path. Beside the house is a large unpruned olive tree, and weeds have begun to overtake what must have once been a courtyard. A few terracotta tiles poke out between the roots. The door isn’t even locked.  
Inside, the dirt floor is littered with leaves, and a rug has been pushed off to the side, bunched up and likely growing mold. As suspected, the stairs appear to be rotting, and the kitchen’s only appliances are older than Steve.  
“It’s charming,” Steve grins, “Rustic,”  
“Charming and rustic are euphemisms for small and run-down.” Off the kitchen is a bedroom, as clearly, we are not meant to go upstairs. And there is only one bed. “Looks like we will be sleeping together.” Steve pokes his head in and quickly backs out.  
“I’ll take the couch.”  
“There is no couch.”  
“The rug then.”  
“What? Are you scared I’m going to try something?” I tease.   
“No, of course not,”  
“Relax. We are going to have to sleep in shifts anyways. Don’t get your tights in a bunch.” I set down my bag and begin to take out my disguise for going into town. “I am going to change though, if you want to,” I do a little turn around gesture with my finger. He nods and hastily leaves the room. There is a broken mirror propped up on a dresser, which is missing two drawers. I carefully tuck my hair under the wig, covering my bright red hair with dirty blonde, and then pull on a gauzy linen dress with a slip.  
When I step out of the room in my leather sandals, Steve does a double take. He stares for a moment.  
“If I didn’t know better, I would say it isn’t you.”  
“It’s my job to be whomever they need me to be.” I’m given a frown but nothing more, and note his outfit change as well, much less undercover cop, despite the fake mustache he now sports.  
“Come on, let’s walk to town and see what information we can gather, and what food.” I count the Euro in my purse and push the long blonde hair over behind me. It has been so long since I have had hair touch my shoulder blades.  
It is two miles to town, and though normally we could make it there is just a few minutes, we both walk slow, getting to know the area. We are right near a well-worn dirt road, that has likely had travelers passing through it for hundreds of years. Though right now, at lunch time, it is dead. Any restaurants and shops will probably be closed for another hour as well, giving no sense to rushing.  
“Have you ever been to Italy?” Steve asks as we pass a herd of goats.  
“Yes, a few times, but never for more than a day or two.  
“I never got the chance, USO tour never made it here.” He looks up at the sky, which is mostly empty, save for a few wispy clouds. We reach the edge of the small town just as everything begins to reopen.  
The town is even smaller than the one the Red Room bordered. There are no groceries stores like I have come accustomed to in America, but individual shops. It is quaint is a good way, unlike our current residence. Steve heads to the butcher and I to the bakery, listening closely to the people around us, hoping some of them will know something. Of course, in a village this small, our arrival does not go unnoticed. As I approach the bakery, there is a cluster of children standing outside, admiring the desserts displayed in the windows. I step inside and listen to people ordering breads and coffee.  
The area is noisy and smells of fresh baked pastries. I manage to force my way to the front, ordering in perfect Italian. Everyone eyes me suspiciously, though I pretend not to notice, and I smile widely with kind eyes to those whose gazes I meet. Outside the shop, having gained nothing of note when listening, the children have begun a game of soccer. I hand the nearest one a bag of cookies, keeping the bread for Steve and I. The children give hurried thank-yous between bites and I spy Steve with a bottle of wine and a few other grocery bags.  
“That was nice of you,” I shrug, but think of the bakery I would drive by on my way to and from missions as a child.  
We arrive back at the house and I begin to setup the computer and SAT phone. The Wi-Fi is painfully slow.  
“I’m going to explore the property if you want to come,” Steve offers. I shake my head, pulling off the wig and looking through the data log that we have of the weapons distributers and their movements. As it nears sunset, I step out onto the former patio, looking for Steve. He is sitting under the olive tree, sketchbook in hand.  
“We have salami, wine, and bread.”  
“Sounds good,” He stands up, wiping off his pants and closing his sketchbook.  
I work through dinner, and the night, ignoring Steve’s suggestions that I sleep. I can’t, it isn’t an option.  
“You have to trust me, we’re partners,” He says finally.  
“It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” I look up from the screen.  
“Then what is it?”  
“This is my first mission back, my first real mission.” He falls silent and watches me work. Eventually, Steve takes out his sketchbook and sits with me at the rickety little table. We go to the town on the third day, to check once more for chatter as we near the expected date. Steve goes into a leather store and I head back towards the bakery, which is an obvious gathering place for the people in town. It is blustery today, and I wish I had worn pants instead of this light skirt. It was uncharacteristically warm for mid-April, but now we are feeling the temperamental weather of the month.  
The children are still playing outside of the bakery. An idea occurs to me. I go inside and purchase a box of bomboloni, wrapped shut with twine and lined with parchment paper. Instantly, I’m surrounded by them all as they remember me from two days prior. I sit down on the ground, under the shade of a tree and begin to collect sticks, leaving the box of doughnuts open for the kids to grab. They watch my movements in fascination as I remove the parchment paper from the box, along with twine. I fashion the sticks into a cross and poke small holes into the paper, allowing me to sew and wrap it to the ends. With the remaining string I create a tail for the kit to be pulled along.  
Throughout the process, the kids begin to talk to me, telling me about all the people they have seen and heard today. Even about two new men who are staying at the inn and how they didn’t even acknowledge them, but how they did say that they will need coffee for their late drive tonight, getting an extra cup each. I listen intently and laugh at all their jokes. They finish up their pastries and run off with their new kite, all racing down the street. They shout about pretending to be the Avengers, and the little girl in the group proclaims herself to be Black Widow.  
I stand up, brushing off my skirt and dispose of the box. Steve is sitting at the edge of the town’s fountain, watching.  
“You’re really good with kids,”  
“Kids are easy. They are always honest. You know what you’re getting.”  
“It’s more than that,” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I learned there were two people who checked in yesterday,”  
“They are going for a late drive tonight, I expect those are our guys.”  
“How did you learn that?”   
“Children are good at hearing things they’re not supposed to.” We head out of town and back towards our property. I can feel Steve’s gears turning. And he is likely replaying our conversation from a few weeks ago, when I had a bit too much to drink and let is slip that the Red Room sterilized me.  
“I don’t want your pity,”  
“Nat,”  
“Let’s get to work, we don’t know when they are going to come by.” We change into tactical gear back at the house. I had forced myself to sleep a few hours last night, and I’m not grateful as we creep into the early hours of the morning.  
We lie in wait on the side of the road, hiding in the tall grass. It is just past two o’clock when we hear the gentle rumble of a car on the road. We have spikes laid across, and this will likely cause the car to spin out, so we have to be ready to dodge the swerving vehicle. My heart thumps in my chest as adrenaline begins to charge through me. It is a familiar rush that I have missed dearly. The dim headlights shine our way as the delivery truck speeds through the dirt path.  
“They’re going too fast,”  
“What?”  
“They’re going to fast. With the spikes, the car could flip, and if they have unstable weapons,”  
We could cause an explosion, especially if they have alien weapons like we suspect. Enough to level the nearby town. I begin to sprint down the edge of the road, hidden in the dark. Steve runs in step with me, and as I thought, they are going twice the speed limit.  
“Give me a boost,”  
“Natasha,”  
“Trust me, we’re partners, right?” He tightens his jaw but nods and I climb onto the disk. Seconds later, I’m hurdling through the air just as the car passes by us.  
I land on the hood of the car, gripping the metal edge before the windshield. I hold on tight and they have just enough time to register my presence when I swing onto the side of the car, pulling open the door. I rip the driver from his seat, throwing him to the side of the road.  
“This is why you should always wear seatbelts,” I smile at the man in the passenger seat. His eyes widen as I take control of the car, simultaneously fighting him. He shoots and barely grazes me. Missing in such a small space is a feat in of itself.  
I unarm him with one hand and slow down the car. He swings open his door, rolling out. Only to be met by Steve, with a fist to the face. I pull the truck to a stop and put it in park and hop out. The driver is already restrained courtesy of Steve, and the passenger is currently being cuffed.  
“That was fun,” I grin at him and pull open the doors to cargo area. Inside are crates labelled as wine. I don’t miss a beat, pulling open the one farthest from the front. Underneath a few fistfuls of straw is a semiautomatic rifle.  
“We got ‘em?” Steve calls, poking his head in.  
“Yes, and I think there might be a nice Moscato in that first crate, it’s a decoy.” I hop down off the truck, dust clouding at my feet as my boots hit the ground. “We should do this again sometime,” I joke.  
We drive the car back up to the house, with the two men sandwiched between us as Steve drives. Inside, we crack open the bottle that was in the truck, while the two criminals sit on the rolled-up rug, shooting us hateful stares. I would like to get a confession out of them, but that is not part of the parameters for this mission, and our instructions were clear. Though, if needed, I could procure some information in under five minutes. Especially with the passenger who looks as though he has the fear of God in him. For good measure, I shoot him a toothy shark-like grin.  
“You are terrible,” Steve shakes his head. I glance back over at the two men and think of how easily it could have been me on the other side of this fight. To be the villain, to be adding red to my ledger. I raise our bottle of wine.  
“To choosing between what the world wants to be and who you are,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed!! Two lighthearted chapters in a row? I must be on something lol  
> There will be some angst next chapter, not to worry!! (And Clint is going to be back!!!!!) 
> 
> ALSO Sort of WandaVision spoiler below but not really because it is in the trailers.... 
> 
> How are they going to explain Wanda having teenage sons? At most in the MCU, she is what, like 23? I know they are magical and stuff, but that is a super small age gap. It has been bothering me since we first found out that the twins were going to be a thing and I just had to share! (also, I think it should have been a boy and a girl to pay homage to the her and Pietro but anywho) SPEAKING OF PIETRO that scene was so sad with the lullaby 😢 Okay, that is it! I hope to have another chapter of Kindred out by Wednesday, but classes start this week so we will see!!


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All!! Hope you're having a great week :) 
> 
> And look at me, posting on a semi-regular basis lol 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!

“How are we just supposed to sit here for three days?”   
“Pretend it’s our mission,” Steve sorts through the stacks of records, “Because it technically is.”  
“An order to relax is not the same as a mission, even I know that.” I roll my eyes.   
Steve and I had just finished taking down a sex trafficking ring here in Thailand, and as a _reward_ we were told to stay at this SHIELD safe house for a few days. The one bedroom cottage is directly on the beach, and hasn’t been updated since Kennedy was in office, save for the small Wi-Fi router.   
“I wasn’t implying that you didn’t,” He stops, “When was the last vacation you went on?”  
“With you,” I pull out my laptop and begin to go through the mission report again, checking for any erroneous or missing details. We both know this isn’t a reward, it is Fury’s version of expressing concern for my well-being.   
“The announcement is coming out in a few weeks. There is going to be a press conference and interviews. This will probably be our last chance to relax for a while.”  
“I don’t think they will let me on those press tours.” I look at my nails.   
“You’re a part of the team.”  
“I’m a liability that needs to be kept under close surveillance.”  
“Exactly, part of the team,” Steve grins, appearing proud of himself. “Come on, let’s go out to dinner, my treat.”   
“You don’t even speak Thai.” I shake my head.   
We end up having dinner in a little street market, bouncing from stall to stall. Steve is surprisingly adventurous to trying the new foods, even if almost all if it was spicy enough to make him sweat bullets.   
“When I was a kid, I used to tell my ma I would take her on an exotic vacation when I became a famous artist,” Steve mentions as we walk back from dinner. “I wish she could see this.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, “You know she was born in the 1800s, that is two centuries ago.”   
“You are the youngest person alive who was born before the 1980s,” I see his mind turn on that for a few minutes.   
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”   
“I know.” We walk into the cottage and I kick off my sandals. It is nearly midnight, and we haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. Steve begins to prep the couch. “You have got to be kidding me.”   
“There is only one bed.”  
“And?”  
“You’re, well,”  
“It was fine in Italy because we slept in shifts, but we are officially off-duty and I don’t see any reason for you to sleep on the couch. If you’re concerned that I,”  
“No, it’s just not proper.”  
“Neither is beheading a guy, but you did that just fine yesterday with your shield,”   
“Natasha,”  
“Fine. Then I’ll sleep on the couch,”  
“No.”  
“Then we’re both sleeping in the bed.” He drags his feet, and I change into my pajamas in the bathroom, if only for his sake.   
“Nighty night Rogers, don’t let the Black Widows bite,”  
“Nat,” He groans.   
“Just kidding, that’s not my thing,” I tease. I can almost hear him blush as I close my eyes.

We return from Thailand to the tower a few days later, sunkissed and sandy. Steve is humming Frank Sinatra quietly in the elevator, his newest discovery from our time at the cottage. He had brough the record player out onto the porch and played the music on the beach   
Tony, Thor, and Dr. Banner are playing pool when we arrive, Tony immediately asking what we got him as a souvenir. When I offer the decapitated head, Tony balks. I think of how funny it would have been to put it in the fridge and scare the billionaire, suddenly regretting leaving it behind at the crime scene.   
“So, what is it like being a secret agent, Cap? Do you have multiple personalities like Red here?”   
“Um, no. I’m more of the stealth guy.”   
“You should have seen her when she was undercover for me. I knew,” I begin to walk away.   
“Wait, where are you going?”  
“I am going to call Clint.” No one says anything to that, and I spin on my heel. I have been able to dodge their questions for the past few weeks regarding my best friend and his whereabouts. The floor I share with him remains half-empty, as I expect it will be forever.   
The Stark pad rings three times before Clint picks up. The face on the other side of the screen is not Clint at all, but Cooper.   
“Hi Auntie Nat!” The child exclaims, “We went to Disney!”  
“Hi Coop. That’s awesome,”  
“You would have had so much fun. We rode the Pirates of the Caribbean, and Peter Pan, and Ariel’s Gotta Go,”  
“Grotto,” I correct gently.   
“Yes, that! And I took pictures with Mickey, and Donald, and Goofy, and so much stuff. Did you know there is a train connecting everything?”   
“Cooper, who are you talking to?” Laura calls in the background before entering the screen. “Natasha, we’ve missed you. How is everything?”  
“Hi Laura, I heard you went to Disney,” The mother lets out a heavy sigh.   
“You look tan,”  
“I just spent a few days on the beach in Thailand,”  
“Mission?”  
“Post mission vacation, Fury’s orders.”   
“Well, I am glad you got some relaxation in. That sounds like the opposite of our vacation,” She pulls Cooper onto her lap and sits down.   
“Is Clint around?”  
“He is putting Lila down for her nap. Do you want me to grab him?”  
“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll call back a different time.”  
“We miss you,” I think of Clint’s words the last time we spoke, _We don’t need you here_.  
“I miss you all too,” My phone starts to ring. Fury. “I have to,”  
“Take it. We love you, Nat.”   
“Love you too,” The screen goes black and I pick up my phone. Of course, accepting the next mission.   
The date of announcing the formation of the Avengers creeps closer and closer. What anonymity I currently have will likely disappear as I am touted from one press conference to the next. As Steve correctly assumed, they intend to have me sit at the table.   
But now, I sit at an entirely different table, at a strip club downtown. Girls crowd around the makeup tables, applying heavy eyeshadow and glitter. I lean forward, putting a swipe of red on my lips.   
“New girl, Nadia, you are on in five,” A man barks. I rise from my seat, walking skillfully in the tall heels. Being back here, with all these girls putting on makeup, reminds me of our cosmetology classes in the Red Room, one of the only enjoyable courses we ever had. I became a master of braids, all different kinds, and changing my appearance entirely with just some makeup. However, my cropped hair is hardly long enough for the intricate braids that I used to love. This brunette wig, however, is. Though I wear it in loose curls. In a great strike of irony, I am wearing a Captain America costume.   
A song about a man with a plan plays as I work the pole, looking for my targets, a pair. They are, as promised, sitting at the table to my right, drinking in the scene. I am sure to catch their attention, and know that after this, when I come out to order a drink, they will request me for a private show. Men, always predictable.   
I do exactly as I planned, and sit down with them after, draping my legs over the seats, flashing the fake butterfly tattoo on my ankle. I have changed into a skintight silver dress, and my breasts are hardly contained, to the point where calling it cleavage would be questionable. I long for my leggings and sweatshirt folded neatly on my bed, waiting for me to come back to them. It has been a while since I have had to go on a honeypot, though Fury was explicit in stating that sex is to be used as a last resort. This is likely only to stop me from disappearing days before the press tour.   
The press tour. I drink what the men serve me and have trouble focusing, anxiety ramping up. Being known has never been part of what I am supposed to be. I should exist in the shadows, in the underbelly of the world. Not paraded across stages like a show dog, to be marveled. I take another sip of a new drink, and this one is notably off. I’m not sure now, what they have been giving me, as it is never usually much of a concern. But I am starting to feel it.   
They lead me to a private room, and I do not have to fake my stumbling. This is bad. Very bad. I try and concentrate. They are here for a business deal, weapon designs on a flash drive. I begin to give on a lap dance, feeling up and down his pant legs and jacket, hoping to find the drive, and I do. Along with a knife. Stupid boys and their toys. I almost giggle at the rhyme. The instructions were clear here. Again, with the rhyming. I take the knife from his jacket pocket and slit his throat. Then I turn around to take care of the second, only to feel a sharp pain in my stomach. Red starts to pour down the front of my dress. I frown at the stain; the dress is definitely ruined and I will not be able to wear it again. The man fires at me again but misses and run towards the door. I token the pocked knife and throw it. But the throw is messy, and he has turned around, embedding it in his shoulder. It is enough to slow him down as I stagger forward and snap his neck.   
“This is a mess.” There is blood everywhere, and my head is becoming cloudier by the second. I killed these men. Why did I kill them? Mission. I’m on a mission. The first one.   
I rummage through his jacket pocket and find the flash drive, and a phone. I think I need a phone. I leave the room and hear screaming, but I can’t figure out why. Get outside. Have to get outside. Get away from the scene. There are sirens. It doesn’t matter. The security cameras are down, and I am wearing fake fingerprints. The jelly is only just starting to peel off. My ankle twists as the heel gets caught in a grate. I meet the tar with surprising force and see the shoe has snapped. I don’t know where I am. I’m in an alley somehow. Next to a dumpster and a pile of crates. So much blood.   
“Nat,” I hear a voice above me, flooded with concern. I look up and grin at the familiar face.   
“Cap’n?”   
“Yeah,” he crouches down in front of me, “I’m going to pick you up, okay?”   
“No,” I push back against the wall, backing myself into a corner.   
“Please, you’re hurt and need medical attention,”  
“M fine,” I stand up to prove my point, but the crates I use for support tip, and I fall back, my head bouncing off the brick wall.   
There is a light flickering overhead. I think I was on a mission. Someone is trying to grab me. I feebly push them back. Hot blood is pouring out of a wound on my stomach like a garden spigot.   
“You can’t water flowers with blood,”   
“Natasha, I’m trying to help you, it’s Steve.”  
“Rogers!” I reach into my breasts and pull out the flash drive, slippery with sweat and blood, “Herr,”   
“That is the last thing you should be worried about right now,” He takes it from my hand, pocketing it. “Do you know what they gave you?” He has his hand pressed on my stomach.   
“Fruit salad,” I mumble and laugh, that isn’t right. “Fruit cocktail?”  
“Cocktail of drugs?”  
“B-I-N-G-O!” I laugh, Cooper had been singing that song at the farm.   
“We have to get you back to the tower, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” A coat is wrapped around my shoulders and he scoops me up. My stomach doesn’t agree with the movement. Alcohol comes spewing out, burning my throat. I cough, eyes stinging. Madame B will be mad I got hurt.   
“I didn’t mean to, please don’t tell her.”  
“Tell who?”   
“Madame, please don’t. It won’t happen again.”   
“Okay, Nat. Okay,” I relax against him, relieved.  
“I don’t feel good,”  
“Just keep pressure on it, okay?” The sticky liquid squelches between my fingers. I hadn’t even realized I was already holding my hands on the wound.  
“Is Yelena okay?”  
“Nat,”  
“I didn’t get any candy,” I promised her. I need to get sweets. I twist in his arms, trying to get out.   
“Just a little bit further, we’re at the tower, Nat.”  
“Clint?”  
“It’s Steve,”  
“Clint,”  
“I’m sorry Nat, he isn’t here,” I finally manage to push out of his arms, landing on the soft carpet of the elevator. I rub my hands on the fibers. “Shit,”  
“Captain America isn’t supposed to swear,” I pat his cheek as he pulls me up from the ground. I press my face against the cool metal walls, draining the heat from my cheeks. The doors slide open, I need to find Clint. I stumble out. This isn’t D.C. This isn’t SHIELD headquarters. I turn around, trying to get back to the elevator, but a man is rushing towards me, arms outstretched. Something isn’t right. The floor starts to move, tilting to the side. Stars dot my vision.  
My legs give out and the world is black before I hit the ground. 


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Hope you are having a great week and enjoy the new chapter!! 
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!!

I’m in my bed, or not mine, but rather the one Stark has gifted me. It is immediately obvious by the way the silken sheets brush against my skin. A pounding headache accompanies me as I blink open my eyes. I work from the toes up. Sore left ankle, just a minor sprain. Bullet wound on my stomach. My hands are scabbed over, previously skinned. There is a small cut on my cheekbone, also well on its way to healing.   
I get up from the bed and head into my bathroom, shoving aside bottles in the medicine cabinet before finding the Advil and popping eight. Hopefully that and a strong cup of coffee will clear up the headache and the blurriness of last night. I’m alive, which means that it was likely a success.   
I tear through my kitchen cabinets to no avail, and realize with a sinking heart that I will have to head up to the shared floor.   
My toes curl into the fiber of the rug lining the elevator. My warped reflection grins back at me in the stainless-steel walls. The doors open. I move silently, hoping to slip in and out with my coffee, going unnoticed. The news is displaying a story about a nightclub and a double murder. That would be my doing. I know I had the sense not to bleed anywhere, but if it were to link back to me, it would not be a pleasant conversation with Fury.   
“Natasha,” I freeze from pouring coffee into my mug.   
“Good morning,” They are all rising from the couch, looking deadly serious. “Terrible news, about the people killed,”   
“Remarkable,” Dr. Banner breathes, staring at me. I stop myself from running out, from implicating myself before figuring out what they know.   
“Thank you for the coffee,” I hold the mug up to my lips. Steve is frowning at me. Steve. I saw him last night.   
“How are you feeling?” He hedges.   
“Fine, slight headache.”   
“Nat, how much do you remember about last night?” He steps forward, and I unconsciously take a step back. Even normally jubilant Thor is sober.   
“I had a mission downtown.   
“You called me last night,” I cross my arms. “To come and get you,”   
“Well, thank you for picking me.”  
“You were hurt and,”  
“And you brought me to Dr. Fine,” I finish, desperate. What he is saying, it can’t be. He promised.   
“We couldn’t make it to D.C. in time,” I look to the other three men.   
“I would like to check your stitches,” Dr. Banner requests.   
“They are fine. Still tender,” I lie. Because that’s what they should be, right? I run Clint’s past injuries in my head. It is just a simple gunshot wound. Should I still be in bed?   
“They know.” Steve states finally, breaking the silence we had fallen into.   
“Know what?” I lick my lips. He averts his eyes. “You promised,”  
“You were bleeding out on the floor. What was I supposed to do?”  
“I just needed to get back to my apartment. I would have been fine,” I put down the mug, scared it will crack in my grip.   
“I don’t see what the big deal is, Cap here is a super soldier,” Stark picks up his glass of scotch. Not even nine o’clock in the morning.  
“Lady Natasha, we do not think of you any differently. You are still a worthy ally and warrior,”   
“But why wasn’t it in your SHIELD file?” Tony adds.  
“No one is supposed to know,”  
“I thought Dr. Cho had perfected plastic surgery,” He squints his eyes.   
“Stark!” Steve turns on him. The four men devolve into bickering. I take a deep breath.   
“Please don’t tell anyone what I am. I’m barely allowed to be out of a cell as it is. The four men stop their arguing to stare at me, “I’m a weapon first, that is what I have always been. And I am okay with that. But I do not want to be a lab rat.”  
“So the Soviets, they were able to replicate Steve’s serum?” Dr. Banner asks.  
“I am going to head back to my apartment. Thank you for ensuring that I did not die. I will see you all at the press conference.”  
“But that’s in a week,” Steve calls behind me.   
I head down to my apartment and get dressed, ripping off the gauze taped to my stomach, and grabbing my duffel. Under Stark Tower, my Porsche is waiting. It took me under five minutes to run. Clint would be disappointed in me for not talking to them. And I can’t go to the farm. I’m not wanted there, he made that abundantly clear.   
I end up hiding out in Colorado, catching a flight from Philadelphia. Aspen is quiet right now, ski season over. In what many would call an impulse buy, I purchase a chalet.   
I wander through the giant house and realize I will probably never return. It is a waste to own a vacation home. It isn’t like having a safe house. This is a place to be filled with family and loved ones. For snow boots to be left by the door and the smell of gingerbread to fill the air. Instead, it is like a skeleton. Empty. Like me. I order furniture for every room before I go and hope it will someday be a wise investment as a rental, I can’t see it being good for anything else.   
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I state as I arrive back to my car in Philly, “I have a calendar,”  
“I’m just here to make sure you make it on time,”  
“No, you’re here to make sure I don’t bail and go on some killing spree.”  
“You did work the whole time you were MIA, I will give you that,”   
“It was time to brush up on my hacking skills,” I turn on the car. She immediately goes for the radio. I bat her hand away.  
“Being a part of this team is making history,”  
“I want to protect the world, to make it a better place,” I chance a look in her direction, “I just didn’t want to be seen doing it.”  
“Think of all the little girls you’ll inspire,”  
“No one should be inspired by me, Maria.”   
The drive is just under two hours. We pull up to Stark Tower, and in the time I was gone, a new sign has gone up. The Avengers logo is impossible to miss.   
Maria and I stand in the elevator. I know she has other things she would like to say, but she blessedly remains silent.   
“I’m not having a stylist go anywhere near me,” I inform her as we step out onto my floor.   
“At least wear one of the outfits they brought. They’re hanging in your closet.” I drop my bag by the washing machine and look in my closet. I grab the black pants and button up white silk blouse. But I nearly laugh at the red heels accompanying the clothes, instead choosing my favorite black ones.   
I am able to bypass a visit to the main floor entirely, heading down to one that Stark has designated entirely for media appearances. There are dressing rooms, holding areas, and a large space for a press conference.   
“Tash,” His rough voice is familiar and welcoming. I turn around, unable to keep the smile off my face.   
“Clint,” He goes to hug me, but stops himself, putting a hand on either shoulder.   
“I heard you got hurt, Steve just told me. I would have,”  
“You were occupied,” I look down at my nails. During my time in Aspen, I had them polished. There is a small chip on my right pinky.   
“Are you ready for this?”  
“Are you?” His smile is more of a grimace.   
“Nat, thank God.” Steve spies us as he steps out of the elevator.   
“The Lord’s name is vain Rogers,” He wears a dark navy suit, the color of the night sky.   
“Where were you?”  
“Busy.” I push back my shoulders.   
“He saved your life, maybe cut the guy a break,”  
“We are not talking about this here, where any goddamn reporter could overhear,” I stalk over to the coffee maker, filling a tiny paper cup.   
“You made it back,”  
“Well isn’t that just news to everyone! The Black Widow fulfils her obligations,” The rest of the bitter coffee slides down my throat and I crumple the cup in my hand before tossing it in the trash, ignoring Tony’s mock offence.   
“Five minutes everyone,” Pepper pokes her head in, smiling. My stomach does somersaults.   
“This is my worst nightmare,” Dr. Banner appears beside me, looking disheveled despite the pressed suit.   
“It could be worse. They could be asking us to risk our lives to protect the planet too,” I cross my arms. He gives me a half-grin, as though surprised I have the capacity to make a joke.   
Thor walks out first, followed by Banner, then Tony. Steve follows, with me close behind, and Clint bringing up the rear. The Avengers Initiative. Earth’s mightiest heroes, as we have been coined.   
There are glasses of water at each of our spots, all emblazoned with SHIELD’s logo. Stark must be beyond irritated with the fact.   
Fury gives a brief introduction and speech, before opening up the floor to questions. Pepper handles the rows of reporters with grace. It is nearly a half hour before I get my first question.   
“Miss Romanoff,” The reporter asks. Clint winces beside me, waiting for me to chew the reporter out, correcting my name to agent, but I let it go, “There are rumors that Alexander Wang is redesigning the suit we all saw in the Battle of New York. Is that true?” I dig my nails into my palms.   
“My suit was designed by a team of special agents to ensure that it is able to perform under the intense circumstances that frequently come with fieldwork. There are no plans to redesign it at this time. Unless, of course, Tony plans on giving me an Ironman suit,” I force out a toothy smile.   
Someone asks Steve about his time at Auburndale Art School before the war began, and I tense as they ask Clint about how he is coping.   
“Who styled your hair and makeup today, Black Widow?”   
“I did.” I eye Maria in the corner, and she flashes me a thumbs up. This is torture.   
“Is it true you defected from Russia to join SHIELD?”  
“Yes,”   
“Why should we think that you won’t turn your back on the United States and return?” Steve goes to speak but I stop him, covering his mic.   
“First, the insinuation that the Avengers are to solely push the agenda of the United States is an insult to the other countries who have worked hard to bring together this team. The Avengers will protect the world, not just U.S. citizens. As for the idea that I would ever betray my country, the mere idea that I have to dignify that with an answer is offensive to every other immigrant who has come to the United States. I happen to know that your grandparents sought refuge here in the United States after fleeing France during World War II. What is stopping them, and for that matter, you, from defecting?”   
“Thank you, Natasha,” Tony jokes awkwardly, “So who has any more questions for me? I’m the reason we are all really here today,” A wave of forced laughter travels through the room.  
“We do have one final announcement to make. Captain Steve Rogers has officially agreed to be the leader of the Avengers team, and SHIELD looks forward to working with him,” I bite back my surprise with the announcement. I had assumed Fury would lead the team, not Steve.   
The elevator ride to the common floor is filled with stony silence. Finally, Maria speaks as we head onto the open floor.   
“You said in the car you were going to be nice to the press,”  
“That was Nat playing nice,” Clint loosens his tie.   
“To be fair, those questions were horrible.” Steve agrees.   
“Romanoff, you need to understand the nature of the position you are now in,”  
“I will take endless questions about my clothes and hair. Fine. But I will not have someone question my loyalty to this team or my country.” I scrunch up my toes, “Sir,”   
“Fine. Stark, I assume you have a bottle of scotch around here?” Tony nods and heads towards the bar. I turn to make my way back to the elevator.   
“Tash, where are you going?” Clint grabs my arm.  
“Back to my apartment.”  
“No. Come hang out with the team. Bond. I don’t really know anyone yet. Be my wingman.”   
“You will do perfectly fine without me.”  
“Please?” I sigh and Clint grins, bumping my shoulder.   
“So, Lady Natasha, you and Hawkeye,”  
“Oh God no,” Clint laughs, cracking open a beer, “She’s like my sister,”   
The conversation moves around me, and there are a few attempts to integrate me in, and I make an effort. But in my mind, all I can do is try and figure out who they want in front of them: Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, or someone entirely different.


End file.
